Who Would

Nobody would know you, not those
who knew you then, before, not those
you grew up with, hung around
the bus shelters and the back of school
with, not the ones at college
where you wore a scarf and smoked
and fucked everyone. They wouldn't
not those ones who woke up in your room
or woke to you in theirs. Not the ones
in your first job where you loafed
and wore things just skewiff, not enough
but just enough. Not the lovers
that you took, the ones you kept for months
allowed them to imagine this for keeps
make plans, see themselves and you
old and wrinkled, hand in hand
queuing for the bus, buying vegetables
fresh and not the one you married finally.
That one would not know you, not after
all the years and the unhappiness
and the nights up with the phlegmy kids
after all the time you spent dreaming
of this other life before opting out.
And not your psychotherapist who watched
you cry week in week out like you were weak
and not the people at the group
and not your housemates.
Not anyone, not even you
standing here in the mirror
looking in, looking out
waiting for some recognition
to float up through silver, through glass.