Papers Please
We become ourselves over time
Or at least a version of one that lasts
Long enough to start to seem permanent.
You can’t remember ever being anyone else.
It breaks down though,
Like an old trusty lawnmower
Everyone takes for granted.
You can’t just change the oil
And sharpen the blade in the spring
Anymore. Some days it takes hours
Just to get the damn thing started
And by then someone else
Has already cut the grass.
There’s still time to get a new one.
You wouldn’t believe the options
Available at the corner hardware store.
The hardest part is extracting
Yourself from your old self,
Which is much harder than it looks.
I can never quite reach the zipper in back.
One of these days I’m just going
To rip the rest of the damn thing off.
Fuck it. Go naked.
A brand new self!
It may not even be legal
In this part of the country.
I’m like a kid on Christmas Eve,
Still excited even though I don't
Accept Santa as my personal savior.
By March, whatever it is I wanted
Will have lost its luster
And ends up stashed in the corner,
Unused, gathering dust.
Oh, the lessons you learn at middle age!
Anyway, it was never supposed
To be something you lug
Around for the rest of your life
Like an unforgiven guilt.
Live a little! Try some things on!
Not that you have to be promiscuous
About it either. Moderation is always best.
Maybe you’ll come to the conclusion
That this is all just one big Self
Dizzied by rows and columns
Of inanities in a tax man’s spreadsheet.
Well, I’m here to tell you, don’t fall for it!
It’s an old trick—
Delusions of the multitudes do not
In fact reinforce the sanctity
Of some sacred unity.
Nowadays you have to show
Your identification for everything.
Retinal scans before you go to sleep.
The guy at the gym has to run
My fingerprints before he can let me in.
I photoshopped a baby picture
Of myself onto my driver’s license.
At the convenience store the lady gazes at my ID
And tells me I’ve aged so gracefully
But refuses to sell me any beer.
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