An image of myself,
captured like the Shroud of Turin,
is indelibly stamped across my mind.

Reflections challenge that likeness
and send me scampering up sycamore trees.

But there’s always a voice,
calling me down,
inviting himself to dinner.

The reflection I find in those eyes
helps me descend,
embracing the truth,
which is deeper than crow’s feet
and more substantial than double chins.

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