The metaphor of mirror
on the medicine cabinet door.
Twins – he of the new language,
me twisting and shaving the other,
grounded barefoot on the cool white tile –
the one that grew the 3 day stubble.
It’s cold out there, he says,
redefining with the black comb
the part, now sitting on the right.
I tilt his screen 90 degrees
to face the wind and sleet
beating against the upstairs window.
He – no longer there to see –
is replaced with the appropriately
frigid answer to his question;
replaced also, as it were,
with the prescriptions, remedies,
ointments and mouthwash,
neatly arranged new metaphors,
categorized carefully on 3 shelves
quietly not caring about
the view or the weather,
the vanities of me
and one-dimensional musings.