Listen to poem:
Stranger
The flash of fear I feel
at passing darkened windows
or dim-lit mirrors comes
when I observe, reflected,
a stranger in my clothes
(or skin) and think:
is this the me
that other people see?
This ghostly image
that I know cannot be me?
Though its actions correspond
to those I take
in shaving, bathing,
wielding cans of aerosol,
surely I would recognize
this jaded, aging,
desensitized distraction
that the world
mistakes
for me.
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