By Thomas Page

No matter what I do, I have no idea what I look like.

I try to plan my outfits in my head as I groggily get dressed at the sixth hour

While ignoring aspects like my hair

As I hurry to beat the traffic Tuesday’d into oblivion

Only to see what I look like until I encounter the mirror

As if I’m one of Lovecraft’s elder things.

Occasionally I’ll get it right and look pretty good

Down to my teeth or the strands of my hair.

Holding the veneer that I’m a productive adult

Like the other productive adults who don’t let me in

When I’m clearly on point to merge

And get to work on time.

I remember of the 30-foot rule in theater

That gives a set piece the appearance of being real

Even though it’s a piece of wood painted like a house

But many houses are made of sticks

Without the threat of a big, bad wolf

Blowing them into a house of bricks.

I just have to look good from a distance

So that people can ignore the nails and varnish holding it together

And stand as the curtain bows

Holding the cooling light of a leko.

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