three o’clock

I do not know you.
or whether you prefer buttercups
to peanut butter cups
I do not know.

I do not know you.
I cannot recognize the contents of
the trunk of your car
or the contents of the baggage
you carry.

I don’t know you.
I don’t know you.

Moving like images
on opposite sides of a mirror
I go left
you go right
and everything is aligned.

but I do not know you.

I do not know you.
whether you sing in the car
or you sing in the shower.
If you write letters on post-it notes
or in the steam on the mirror.

I don not know you.
whether you talk more in the mornings
or late at night before you fall asleep.

Then stepping outside of myself
I’d pose a warning
whispering things like
be reasonable
be fair
be a decent person
beware.

And the me inside me
she never listens
though she hears all
she’s much too busy
dreading three o’clock.

This is not me.
This is not me.
This it not me.
This is not me.

This is the undertow.