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At thirty six,
I look at my reflection as I move past all shiny things.
Not narcissism, but anxiety keeps my stare…
Am I am still here?

Reassured by my wide nose and eyes
in the sides of toasters and store windows,
I walk on.

I am immortal.

At thirty six,
I am older than this morning’s rain.
I am older than my last thought.

I will never be thirty seven or fifty.

Frozen even in the late summer heat.
My time stands still, as
I walk on.