Doppelgangers 

She was vaguely familiar,

reminded me 

of my mother,

her greying hair, lined face.

Her breasts sagged,

upper arms flapped,

her stomach

wrinkled and floppy.

Yet she moved

as I moved,

frowned when

I frowned.

She was trying on

that same shirt

I had just chosen

from a rail outside.

In the old days

we had private changing rooms,

we didn’t have to share

with elderly doppelgangers.