Secret Identity
These days I spot myself in the mirror-
doughy and gray, pale from days spent
at a desk, arranging names or numbers
into tables or creating "Save-the-Dates"-
and in these reflected moments I see
how I have faded from the page, become
scratched with age like a vinyl record,
and, of course, there is something to be
mourned, a kid who was never quite
captured properly in the photos that
my children pull out of the shoebox
marked College, the pictures they hold
up and ask, "What is going on here?"
And I know how foolish it would seem
to even imply that I wished those pictures
were my reflection, or maybe not those,
but the one that should have been taken,
that I am sure could have existed of a kid
with energy like fire and a careless
sense of style- such long, perfect hair,
jeans ripped at the knee, worn red
Chuck Taylor high tops and vintage
glasses with wire rims, arms full of books,
the casual scratch of a Zippo and flick
of a cigarette. The kind of wiry kid
who lives at ease in the dark of barrooms
and in the brilliant light of college greens.
The kind of kid who could really ache
and radiate, who prickled with charm
and the confidence of potential energy.
It's the reflection I still half-expect to see
before my eyes come into stark focus,
and I find the me my children see.
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