Self, Loathing

My face startles me
as I pass a storefront.

That shadow self
in the window
looks smart as hell
when he’s indistinct.

I know better, of course,
than to listen to him,

trust him even less
when he’s in a mirror
across from me.

Bastard,
I say, I bet Dad
(whoever he was)
broke his own mirror
the first time he caught
a glimpse of that future me
in that image.
He saw the kind of son
he was likely to father,
and that’s why he ran.

You’re not so smart,
I tell my reflection.

It says
the same to me.

Maybe
it’s smarter than it looks,
but it can’t be by much.