I woke up to the rain

earlier than I wanted to

and felt a kind of click

that seemed to set the world askew.

You know that kind of click:

you meet your own impersonator,

become a spectator

captivated by the cold precision

of your own dead-end ways.
 


And no one suspects a thing

—your man does such a bang-up job—

you’re stuck inside of Elvis,

feeling like a tone-deaf slob

and clinging to the mic—

your spiritualism,

your own anachronism—

to keep yourself from falling down.
 


And here she comes again

like a dozen rotting roses;

sadness swarms the room

and gives the lie to all your poses

and you just can’t tell

connection from reaction,

repulsion from attraction

in the warm, dark circus of her face.