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.”
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
for a sprint
but he never goes anywhere.
to look like him,
and we have the same
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
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?
I have a Mono Lisa face
and my smile
is written down.