So — there I was
at the Salvation Army store
with Sandra Bernhard.
She had “Pretty Lady” snarls
coming out of every pore.
I stepped over into
the red tag specials
while she let rip a snorting rant
about the lack of opportunity
for whores these days. What is the point
of being a professional, she said,
with all these amateurs cluttering up
the trade? Her wig fell off then
and I recognized the face anew: someone
the television had featured, briefly,
perhaps a lottery winner or a fugitive
with a face once blurred for legal reasons
that stayed blurred afterward.
Sandra Bernhard, wherever you are,
I have hidden a vintage jacket in your size
in a box near the aisle of broken toasters.
Come soon, your doppelganger is moving toward the door,
and if she gets loose,
there’s no telling what will happen to you:
you might end up in a place
where nearly familiar faces thrill at first glance,
and just as quickly disappear into the crowd.
Dark Matter 