The Wrong Self

This morning, counting my assorted selves,
I found one that I’d never seen before —
A little worn and dusty from the shelves
Of id and ego, where it used to snore.

My novel self was somewhat less assured
Than those I flaunt from birthto Easter-day.
In fact, my other selves were not allured
By this reclaimed and ugly stowaway.

But I (and what is “I” at such odd times)
Put on the self, all patched and slightly torn.
I sipped a sour and talked about my rimes,
And suddenly, like Keats, I was forlorn.