Set-me-down mirrors

You know yourself
and lose control
You call yourself old.
Tear out another sheet
from an imperfect diary,
and drive conversations
with mirrors and window reflections.
Suited and tied,
shake hands, nod, appreciate.
Your third furtive glance,
clutch empty glasses,
shift in your shoes and twist one arm around another
struggling
to be a man you never were.
If reflection were
not a trick of the eye
I would have believed you.
Some of us tremble while we speak
but you refuse to look at me;
and I'll never know
if it's another reflection you see in me.