I caught my reflection on passing a window
this morning. A distorted glimpse on old
conical glass, caught in those minutely
small bubbles, as if flawed glass sighs
a breath before hardening to clarity.
And there I am, like a disowned relative,
a hanger-on, twisted in its molten wake.
A picture of old sacks, and old rags,
a slack jowl, and a coming together
of porous thin bones. And my fingers,
damned things are rusted old keys.
And I think ….. but hey.
Inspired and remixed from Bleak House
and my 1991 Winter Journals