Mirroring Myself

The mirror (in the photo) 

shows my hair

early morning wild;

the light striking my glasses

as I look up a moment 

from the laptop on my desk.

I’m propping my head on my fist,

thinker’s pose, and I’m still wearing

the watch that shows the time in the dark.

Out of bed three hours and more,

I’m still in pyjamas (yes,

my T-shirt-style pyjama top 

is black, so what?)

but I have had my coffee 

and even breakfast – a starchy bun today

as I’m out of healthy low-carb cereal;

well at least I keep a balance, ha ha ha.

The desk mirrors me too …

the fact of the laptop, first port of call

after pouring the coffee,

the essential coffee (black, unsweetened 

Espresso, plunged). The fact of

the mirror – a spare,

nowhere else to place it, but I like it

because it’s big, round, and framed in black.

I tell myself, if anyone knocks at the door

unexpectedly, I can at least straighten my hair.

At the side table just beyond the desk,

forming part of it really (my stuff

always overflows) is the Goddess Sekhmet

lion-headed, a small statue

perched on top of my box of business cards.

And next to that, on an old card file of Reiki students,

you can just see my prettiest clown. I love

the sad clowns; don't find any clowns sinister, so there,

and my house is full of them. This one, if

you could see her completely, has delicate white hands

to match the painted face with two large teardrops.

Her costume is mostly purple, some hot pink. My friend 

Angela, who doesn't freak out at clowns either, 

found her in an op shop and grabbed her for me.

Behind me in the mirror you can also glimpse my kitchen

where another well-dressed clown

hangs from the ceiling, sitting on a swing.

But I am not in my kitchen,

not preparing food, not washing dishes,

not even ironing although the board is set up.

It’s been there for days – never mind not visible

in this photo – waiting for me to use it,

and still waiting. That you can't see it 

reflects, I guess, a truth.

The mirror

captures a moment,

a moment of me. The photo

preserves it, the surroundings

elaborate upon it, to some degree,

and the poem shows you

a fuller picture. It’s warts and all …

except that it isn't all

and never can be. (No human being

can be so reduced.) It’s just

this brief reflection.

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Mirror