Self Portrait
Sometimes I find an old strand of hair tangled
in the fibers of my clothes. The strand is
green. Red. Purple.
Teal. Auburn. Blonde.
I wriggle the strand out,
prying a piece of who I once was
from my time-capsule sleeves.
I recall what it was like to be Me
at that time, with fresh, faded,
and reanimated hair. And as
I sweep, I remember that
the dust must be made of at least
50% dead skin cells. They shrivel
and flake off, and the remnants
of Me are lost to the vacuum.
