Mirror Image

I've probably eaten enough. I got an egg sandwich, coming out of town, and I've eaten morels twice since then, on toast and in an omelet, both times with potatoes on the side, and an avocado with the odd Minnesota hot sauce, which is really just a slightly spicy balsamic blend. Washing my hands in the men's room, I caught sight of myself in the mirror over the sink. I seem to not care what I look like. What I saw reminded me of some Walker Evans photographs, a share-cropper with barely enough to eat. Wilted some early greens with bacon fat, which seemed appropriate. Mopped up the juices with a hunk of bread. Boot up, one last time, to walk out to the graveyard. Almost a path, but serpentine, clearly displaying the various sidetracks: an acorn midden, a deformed poplar, three rocks in a perfect triangle. I suspect human intervention. One of the graves holds water, ridge-top clay, and I see myself again, palimpsest against blackened leaves. I don't see myself often, and twice in one day throws me for a loop. The me that other people see. An ugly bastard, really, but with a kind face. And I listen well, if I care to. Otherwise I retire to the basement, humming a song I only half remember. I need a live-in editor, I could cook for, who would remind me to change shirts. It's a sorry state, if I am who I saw in that puddle. I only kept that tee-shirt, ragged at every hem, because I like the way it feels, hanging on my body. An old friend, what can I say? Some articles of clothing reach a cult status. That Henley shirt, the last woman that slept in my bed, has been retired. It's hanging above lane 13, where I bowl on Thursday. All relationships are designed for failure. Drinking single-malt scotch, it seemed obvious. Maybe it was Irish whiskey. At any rate, I was imagining the sheer line of a boat I might build, a coastal schooner I could live on and not make waves. Safely offshore. I could even do a gambling thing there, and it wouldn't be out of place. A simple nod to Janus, who guards the opening. And we're in. Who would have thought. It's only significant that lover pulled you from the grave. Listen, I had a minor epiphany, almost a heart attack, everything seems to mean something. I have to think about that.

Tom

The red-buds are so beautiful
there is no comparison,
your silly rug.