and I am beginning to think

that I am not remarkable

that I am not of note

for my face at one glance is ordinary

and at a second forgettable

which is why I must keep looking

in my rearview askew

to assure myself

that my eyes are dull

and indifferent

and in distant spectators

rushing relentlessly past

almost indiscernible

and my hands rust out

from disuse like

weeded bridges

across an unnamed creek

where my presence

less subtle than silent

frail, shallow as headlights at dawn

absorbed in itself, corroding

as my mind

is mostly the detritus of better men’s efforts

and the deferment of better men’s dreams

and that is why I am beginning to think

that I am not impressive

nor do I intimidate

except those -- myself

who cower under the

sheer weight of pretension

teetering on my frame

but for years and still

my engine is arrogance

and my pilot aloof

and mirrored in every unassuming collaborator

my own meager build

and sputtering ego

but I’m beginning to think

just beginning to think

that I am not they

and they are not I

and we are measured

not by each other

but by the dirt and tar

of our own residue

and when thus sifted and separated

we are each ourselves not

remarkable at all

my mirrors are scraped of sheen

and their gilded frames weather

and like the shack overgrown out-of-sight on a by-way

this new portraiture

pierces my soul with an increasingly


pain, hot, healing

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