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.