We Share Each Other

by William Doreski

You look at me in the mirror.
I look at you in the mirror.
When did we become each other?

Shades drawn, shadows extrude
from the woodwork. The smell
of new snow refreshes our senses,

but the shadows might absorb us
before we return to ourselves.
Let’s shovel the driveway together.

Because we share each other,
our muscles will equally ache
when we finish that dreary job.

Not enough snow for a plow
to shove aside with a roar
of failing pistons. But more

is coming this afternoon when
the sky will warp into fractals.
Winter never quite finishes

whatever it begins. We lack
the mindset for season angst,
but peering into the mirror

only to catch the other’s face
reminds us how quickly with age
we’ve dispersed in time and space.