I’m less terrified of past personas. I grow
older and my wardrobe grows darker.
But I still get embarrassed,
sometimes terribly embarrassed. Confronting
myself of twenty-five, or fifteen—the child
is father to the man—Oh Lord! Please, no!
But he is. Here I am.
Where else would I be? I can only shed
clothes, I can’t shed the wearer.
Nope. I can’t.
Once upon a time the callow youth
and friend got on the GO bus
and went downtown to find
a small recorder. He’d heard himself, was
not taken by his voice, his intonation, his slang.
A recorder, he reasoned, always on,
would show his verbal trouseau. It did.
Oy, it did! Why did he even open his mouth?
Why do I now? Hmm. Well, also remember
you were brave enough to buy the recorder.
Oy the clothes and not the wearer. It would be much simpler if shedding the clothes did shed the wearer and expose a new shiny one like a lizard shedding its skin.
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