The person stares at me.
His head and features are distorted,
like a freak at a sideshow. His mouth, a Roman arch,
whispers something I can't understand.

I think that I have met this creature before,
lurking in some forgotten shadow.
He reminds me somehow of something I once was,
and maybe still am, within skin and bones.

My memory searches its databank,
looking for a clue as to identity.
Straggly, wet hair. Roundish ears.
Patchy face with splotches of red.

Impressions long latent bubble up.
Years ago a younger person stared
at me in much the same way,
a boy, in fact . . .

with equally distorted head,
mouth, ears . . . with tongue darting
- like a frog nabbing a fly,
or a snake licking its chops.

Perhaps this boy was trying to communicate
with me in some arcane language.
To tell me - in his own way - that the world is all right
in different and hidden hinterlands.

Maybe this same boy grew up and stares at me
at this very moment, trying to repeat messages
I still need to hear, and however grotesque,
to soothe my feelings and allay my fears.

The person stares at me,
But slowly dissolves as the steam
rises up and clouds the surface of
my Eljer metal bathtub faucet.

- Bob Miller