Morning Encounters

 

 

 

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.

 

4 comments

  1. Ah, the morning routine. That fellow in the mirror and I went through a lot of changes over the years, but now that I am a quadriplegic someone else shaves me and there is no mirror. Frankly, I’d rather be doing it myself, but that’s no longer possible.

    I enjoyed your poem. Savor your morning routine, and give that fellow in the mirror a wink for me.

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  2. Craig,

    This poem would wear your signature even if your name were not with it. It uses morning routines as encounters with the very being. The tile floor and the stubble are, for sure, cold
    but “the bare feet” is an intimate look into the psyche and the “metaphor of mirror” put a lump in my throat as I thought for a moment about the mirror over my cold tile floor.
    Just for the record, you are a stranger to one-dimensional musing and so is your pen!

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  3. Hi Craig

    So well done! Love the idea of looking into the mirror and seeing another side, another self or character. Your use of language and image in this piece add to the cleverness of this poem and the pleasure of reading it. Thanks for sharing this one and contemplating “the metaphor of mirror”.

    My best,
    Wendy

    Like

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