Into the Looking GlassShe stares at lilac seashell soap.More Like This
A dollar for the dirty towel.
A twenty for that creaky bed.
Some five or so, damned coffee pot.
Three-fifty for the shoddy view
of brick-walled motels down the street.
That valiant mouse upon her back,
all wilted from the years she's known.
The mighty has gone out of him,
her age spots weigh his ink-heart down.
With twisted hands she opens up
the curtains slung about the glass,
that's seven for the crooked rod.
She hunches over in her chair.
This once wild woman grits her teeth
with greasy Gray hair in her eyes.
She pulls that lilac seashell soap
she paid her fourteen dollars for
'bout tears it from the paper wrap
(three cents for that pink waxy shit)
and washes her worn wrinkled face.
A glance into the looking glass
she paid one hundred dollars
to see her age-stained eyes turn black.