You meet yourself on a rainy street,

suspect science went on a binge.

There you are, thin, hungry look

seconded by wrinkled skin,


ditches etched grave-deep

around each eye. Class project

had been, create new life.

You put half your heart into it --


blended brie, thyme, some sheep,

beaker turned in late, weak,

fraud the prof locked away

in her grade-next-quarter file.


Nine weeks later, your clone, grown,

nearly old, dressed black,

a little white. Ex-wife likely lied,

said you loved those colors -- noir


complements blond curls streaked

from age with gray, especially

on cloudy days. New-you bought in,

swaggers like guys with power,


has contempt for blues and teals

you spent his test tube life collecting.

He avoids your eyes, hazel too, won't be

pulled aside, told arrogance, hate, 


abuse of women, cannot be washed away

even in a heavy rain. You slink off,

ashamed, still thin, devising ways

to turn a makeup beaker in.

                           Timothy Pilgrim