People say that if you happen to meet

Yourself in the past, time, in a complete

second, will rupture and splinter and tear.

Both selves will dissipate, like a nightmare.

Suppose Para, steeped in glorious pride

Of her soft bosom, curvy hips, and high

cheekbones, dusted with pink or saucy red,

Always trying on one outfit after

Another, one shade of lipstick after

Another, minutes late to class because

the last thing she wants is a faux pas,

Were to meet Dox, with her exhausted eyes,

Sweats and pajamas too small for her size,

The waistband pulled up over the belly,

So it won’t bulge out, and jiggle like jelly.

Scrutinizing herself in the mirror,

While eating cafeteria ice cream.

Surely, it would be a catastrophe,

Both of them would disappear rapidly.

Thats why I only invite them over

On alternating days, Para, then Dox

Para, then Dox, Para, Dox, Para, Dox.