I think he’s a Mormon

but I can’t be sure—that guy at work

who looks like me.

Yesterday, we wore the same baby-blue shirt.

“Mike!” Somebody shouted. I turned around.

“Wait! No. You aren’t Mike, are you?”

“No, my name’s Andy.”

“Oh—everybody knows Mike, but who are you? I didn’t realize you work here.”

“I stay in my closet and keep the door closed.”

“What do you do here?”

“I push paperwork, mostly. It’s a fascinating life.”

He sneered.

I don’t know why.

It used to be that my personality massaged people.

Now, I rub them the wrong way

I wonder if the man thought I was gay

because I told him

I work in a closet.

The internet crashed today, and I checked-out for lunch.

I signed out, with a feminine pen. It’s a pink flower.

“You need to get masculine pens,” I told our secretary.

“What would that look like?” She asked.

“I’d better not say,” I said.

My silence gets written down

because I believe the pen is mightier than the sword.

Sometimes I wonder, “What would Mike say?”

He hops around

on little feet

like a skinny runner

warming up

for a sprint

but he never goes anywhere.

It’s embarrassing

to look like him,

and we have the same

haircut.

Is it self-hate?

He wears multi-colored polo shirts

and gray polo pants

but he doesn’t ride a horse.

It’s just a knock-off style

that he got on sale

with his cheap Dilbert tie

and happy-go-lucky smile.

I don’t smile,

but I like to write jokes down.

I ran into him in the hallway,

“I got mixed-up with you today,” he said.

“You don’t say? Is the internet still down?”

“Yes. That just means I get to spend more time in a few other classrooms.”

Maybe, one day

I’ll break-out of this prison of a personality

with karate,

or hypnotism.

Why do I look like everybody?

Was my great great great grandfather

a ladies’ man

who sullied the virginity

of half the town

or was he

a raving rapist?

My doppelgangers

are everywhere.

I have a Mono Lisa face

and my smile

is written down.