Each morning when
I peer
At the mirror
Above my bathroom sink
I seem to see
Me
Staring back.
But that thing
On the mirror
Is not me;
It’s an artifact
Of light waves
And reflective indices;
It’s about
Preconceptions, illusions, delusions,
Optimism, pessimism or
Astigmatism,
Just how vain
I am,
And how clean
I’ve kept my mirror.
I’m not there.
I’m somewhere
Among the neural pathways
And the gray cells
Of this aging brain;
And the only way to see
The real me,
I think,
Is not by looking out
But looking in.

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