Enigmatic (Poetry)

I’m not sure I trust the mirror
I can’t read the face I see
it gives so very little away
I half suspect it isn’t me.

And yet it must be — eyes, mouth, nose
getting older but they’re mine
while of those other tell-tale clues
well ... there’s really not much sign.

All those mysterious dead give-aways
supposed to indicate the truth
though I’ve looked for hard and long
so far I’ve not found any proof

they exist as plain to some
as the open book cliché
for all the staring in the world
I’m none the wiser (as they say).

And as for those who swear they read
every nuance — each fine line —
I tend to think it’s all a ruse.
My flesh won’t tell nor skin define.