You go into a store, find an orange

shade of dress

(two minutes flat) fits perfectly and you wonder where

is the “I” in all this

thus-

ness,

that is, in the light filling

mirrors with our faces, the irresistible

angle of a bus turning left, and do we

leave parts of ourselves in each photograph. No question

mark – the request is

rhetorical, the upturned ending absent

of intonation. Don’t ask me. I mislaid

my answer with my wedding ring

and my keys. Self-help says we can

do better no matter how hard

we try. A shinier you is

underneath all you appear to be. Which

self

out of hundreds

you will choose to beg the question,

block the doorway, stand at the head

of the class with nothing to report. Even

your happiness becomes a lovely

misunderstanding, the correct

answer said too quietly to be heard. In all this

thus-

ness,