This machine gifts you a slip of paper
that will tell you who you are. There
are 75 different kinds of you to be. There’s the night
you, the day you, the you by the water waving to us
from the opposite shore you, the falling you, the you in lamplight you.
Instead of a you, your slip contains directions.
You begin to unspool.
Stricken, frozen, still, you crumble and slip into the floor.
Less and less like the you in front of the machine reaching for a slip of paper you.
These are thing you begin to forget are yours:
car, bed, cats, choices, futures, closets and drawers,
jobs, books, broken turntable, rugs.
The you that wants to come free
from all of this physical mooring you, the you coming
before a day and remembering you. The you
standing outside with the sun
setting behind you you.
David Wojciechowski lives and dies in Syracuse, NY. His first book, Dreams I Never Told You & Letters I Never Sent, was published by Gold Wake Press. He can be found at davidwojo.com and on Twitter @MrWojoRising.