The Storefront

I stopped walking.

The glass caught me

and I didn't recognize

the thing looking back.

It was definitely me—

the jacket I was wearing,

the face I shave every morning—

but it wasn't

me.

Too tired.

Too old.

Something wrong

in the way the light hit,

in the way my eyes

looked hollow,

in the way my mouth

was set

like I'd been clenching it

for days.

So I turned back.

I looked at the window again,

and there I was,

and I still didn't

know who I was

looking at.

The glass is just glass.

It shows what's there.

But something in me

doesn't match

what I see,

and I stood there

on the sidewalk

trying to figure out

if I'd changed

or if I'd just never

looked

before.