He didn't, in fact, look a bit like me, unless
You were the sort for whom all white men
Of a certain age looked like twins. Not tall
But taller, not young, but younger looking.
Not bearded at all but with the shadow
Of a beard as heavy as my own had been
Weighing down his boyish phiz. Not broken
But presumably breakable, my mirror image,
Situs inversus, his paws on my love, his eyes
Crinkled with the wry amusement of doubt,
Not as to his own entitlement but to his own
Ability to make good on what he'd been
Given, when all he'd really been given was
The opportunity to deliver me, my fetch,
Elongated echo cast at twilight, the last
Thing I would want and the first that might
Help me help me deliver me.
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