There are evenings when the mirror
looks like plain glass.
There are evenings when it looks
like an accusation.
Same face,
same eyes,
same bad hair doing what it does,
same shoulders not broad enough yet
for half the things I want from life,
same mouth better built for silence
than speeches.
Yet the mirror changes.
Or I do.
A person spends years growing
into a face
while pretending he already lives there.
That may be the whole trouble
with being young.
You are introduced to yourself
far earlier
than you are ready to meet.