Sunday 4/28

Just write this one; I got back from vacation yesterday. Reading real poets’ poems is humbling/inspiring…

Who is she?

It took me 50 odd years to really look in the mirror;

I used to feel afraid of the person on the other side. Am I still:

Who is she?

Where does she go while I sleep?

Do her eyes see in all directions?

Do they split duty guarding my other face through the night?

Or is she another language

Like a tongue twisted in a vice?

Has she lived other lives-

A boy picking pockets for a piece of bread?

A 1920s flapper dancing at Gatsby like parties?

A loud audience member throwing food at actors in Shakespeare time?

Or is she the bringer of my day count, wrinkling slowly, surprising me with a sinking face?

Does she know when I’ll die?

She is a stranger to me; I stare now-as afraid of her as falling off a horse, dying in a fire, dying soon…always surprised by the real age she shows me.

How can I be this old? Time made a deal with her and sneaks up behind me, a Spector.