The real is found somewhere between
walking down the street completely naked
and a crowd assembles (from where?) and
begins pointing at your enormous member,
but you’re a woman and you morph back
and forth to realize you’re late for the bus.
And someone stares at you and you think
I must be dreaming, so you like back and
he’s still staring and you see a stalker until
he gets off at the next stop and you ask
if your lips, hair and eyelashes look OK,
so you steal a look and (momentarily)
fail to recognize yourself.
#### Poet’s Notes ####
Photo of First Draft: