I try to sneak around him, but he always sees I’m there
and catches me on mornings when I’m vulnerable and bare.
Just stepping from the shower, feeling springy as a rose,
about to shave – it’s then the saggy, wrinkled horror shows:
and like a little bird I stare into his cobra eyes,
and like a sinner staring at his sin there’s no surprise.
This glass of bitters, falsest front, whose shallow face is
a hide stretched on a silver plate – my twin, and yet not kind –
a karmic shadow aping me, my tragicomic mask
who’ll match me stride for stride, though I’m not equal to the
My mockery, my mime, my evil clown, my own poor skin
whose faults stand naked to be seen, except what lies within.
If you have any comments on this poem, Ed Shacklee
would be pleased to hear from you.