The Mirror

at the foot of the bed  reflects
but doesn't see the 'me'.

We preen the smile, it smooths our ride
lips pegged to barbed wire fences wait.
Exposure will traitor us
if we drop the cloak that drapes
our hidden parts in camaraderie.

We're lead by what we read and t.v.
easier if others build the crescendos
then we can be liked, don't have to be right.
Easier not to read what isn't written.

The woven basket leaking my collection
took years to fill. Cellophane thoughts
now myths of my anthology
invisible ink on transparent paper,
pages infused with infection.

At school we learn to turn wood
dismantle/rebuild the mechanics.
Tool boxes opened later only had bats and balls.
Our games exhaust our days, we go home empty.
Still, the organics fibrillate frail between threads
of sticky emotions we don't know how to weave,
but wear nonetheless.

Rotating reds pulse our nights.
And the syncope is fear.
Fingers stiffened by lack of touch,
cannot undo what wasn't there.
The rental is permanence.