At the photography exhibit,
they have lined up every photo
in which I have ever appeared.
Everyone I have ever seen is there.
According to the booming announcer,
I am to recognize myself without them
recognizing me. The healthy life
has enough time to be unwitting, he whispers.
By this criteria, my life has been
and continues to be a great success.
Here I am, making myself solemn
in the morning of someone else’s mountain hike;
That’s me, comfortable in my western shirt
in the airport next to an escalator.
I am always ruining someone’s vacation
photos at Disneyland, watching a man
hit one over the fence. In my father’s
suit after a funeral, I steal candy
from a convenience store.
The back of my head is turned
toward the great monument.
I am drunk in the back of a truck
On the highway.
Still being celebrated,
I have been discovered
by nearly everybody. Slightly drunk
themselves on the wine I have provided,
they clap me on the back. In front
of the only photo I don’t recognize—
an unfinished house, a man
cradling a hammer, through the slats
the sky the consistency
of undeveloped film—they
are taking pictures.
Hello, I tell myself.