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.