To the mirror

who grew legs just to follow me
and show me all I do in a day.
Coffee in my hand. The only hand.
Pouring water and plugging in a percolator.

To the mirror that has reflected on a flat surface
the work I have done just to spoil it.

Stain a sticky tongue of coffee
on the floor while I pour
the mirror more.

And when I work I know.
I see flakes of dirt scratch the mirror’s face.
No hand of its own for grip, the rectangle is content
to frame my effort in, sweat and pain,
and the slow spreading smile
that chases small victories away.
Tilled flat. At myself I stare at a mirror
who grew legs just to follow me here.

To show me
how far
my work is
from over.

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