i am still the first draft of a person,
not exactly a catch, a puny little
jest rather than a strong punchline.
sadly, my reflection in the mirror
cannot understand this, and it scares
me more and more with the sight
of this greying imitation of dignity.
and i might actually be okay with it,
if it were not for this tiny, insignificant
detail: the poet suddenly wanted to get
rid of me.