Ever since I was a little kid,
I’ve cringed at all your
Happy Halloween hoopla.
I never connected with assuming
another persona, another life,
whether fantastic or unremarkable,
whether for an hour or a day.
I had enough problems wearing Joe,
fitting in all the bulges and baby fat,
the fumbling and mumbling
he who the world recognized as
eminently barely acceptable,
even after I grew out of that me.
Maybe I’ve changed in my later years,
daily donning this digitized costume
of the possibly brave, sometimes sensitive,
and occasionally romantic,
reflective scribe… just for you.
From this side of the mirror,
though, I still recognize younger me,
now only with wrinkles and
chair-molded middle-age spread,
all typos and too metaphoric diction,
scarred with that mortifying memory
of once agreeing to wear
a candy striper uniform
just to get the girl.