The three fold man, I see you

in mahogany mirrors, two either side,

of the age I am now, the boy

to the left, coloured in regretful sepia

and fading from view, the old,

untapped and unseen but hoped to be,

still invisible, a sign tapped out in Braille,

don’t count your chickens sonny,

I should be grateful in wasn’t in semaphore green

or the malignancy of burning bush confrontation,

thou shalt not…

this three-fold man, remember me,

here in the middle

looking back at you.