I’m not sure I could spot reality
In a police lineup. Who could?
Shoulder-to-shoulder with simulations,
Hallucinations, copies, interpretations,
Some slapdash, some with
Production values surely too lavish
For reality’s paltry budget.
I’m not sure the last time
I saw it—before I left home for good,
Perhaps, before home wasted away
In molds and smokes and dead skin flakes.

I have a hunch that it would shrink away
From an interrogation lamp,
Shrivel away, leave us
With nothing but bare walls and empty
Hands.

I search the suspects
For birth marks, acne, graying hair,
That which would otherwise
Be airbrushed away. When one of them
Breaks wind, all chuckle but one,
Who continues to stare out as though
In a daze; tattoos climb its arms
Like termites up a rotted door frame.
I suspect it’s the one, though I don’t
Recognize it. So the officer asks it
To strip down: mullet, eyes, chin, chest,
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera…