The Missing Person by Donald Justice
He has come to report himself
A missing person.
The authorities
Hand him the forms.
He knows how they have waited
With the learned patience of barbers
In small shops, idle,
Stropping their razors.
But now that these spaces in his life
Stare up at him blankly,
Waiting to be filled in,
He does not know how to begin.
Afraid that he may not answer even
To his description of himself,
He asks for a mirror.
They reassure him
That he can be nowhere
But wherever he finds himself
From moment to moment,
Which, for the moment, is here.
And he might like to believe them.
But in the mirror
He sees what is missing.
It is himself
He sees there emerging
Slowly, as from the dark
Of a furnished room
Only by darkness,
One who receives no mail
And is know to the landlady only
For keeping himself to himself,
And for whom it will be years yet
Before he can trust to the light
This last disguise, himself.
This poem was selected by Russell J. (Adult Services Librarian)
