Mirror Mirror

It’s time to talk about the mirror.
It’s been sitting in the corner all week.
strange and vivid shadows dance through it.
I’ve watched them pass each day
all day
They pass through and sometimes look
like someone I know
each time
someone still living, someone I love

It’s been another week
are you a fool?
I’ve been telling you now for two weeks
those shadows pass each day
all day
and one of them looked like you
for a second I swear
one of them looked like you
that foolish face and that
ass cleft chin were
unmistakable

Three weeks now since
that mirror moved in
it’s out of the corner now and 
it’s at the foot of the bed.
I see the faces and shadows passing
each day
every day
and now I’m sure
it’s you.

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Toilet Key Anthology #2

One night, you’ll get up from the chair,
tired of your music and the cricket’s chirp.
You’ll head outside, engrossed in your phone,
and only look up after your cigarette is lit.

On the trash can, there will be a man draped,
head bowed, admiring his hospital blanket cape,
and he will be talking to the pigeons sleeping above him.

Trash Mage will raise his arms towards the steel canopy,
shaking the scratchy blanket free from his shoulders
revealing he’s only wearing torn swimming trunks.
Tied around his middle is a red tie from a garbage bag,
with a flashlight and a lighter tied to the slack.

He will say he’s schizophrenic,
but it’s safe because he knows.
He will say he knows the voices he hears –
he will pause to cover himself and ask for a cigarette –
the voices aren’t real even if they’re pretty cool. 

Next time you see him, head shaved, 
he’ll be dressed in two coats and Carhartt pants. 
He’ll say your boss told him he can’t come inside. 
He’ll say he knows it’s not your fault,
but he’ll try to steal peanut butter. 
After he apologizes he asks for one last cigarette 
before he takes the 109 to wherever looks quiet. 

Kirsten, chain-smoking Timeless Times, 
will quietly side-eye Trash Mage
He’ll say he wants to build a gazebo,
big enough to house everyone without a home,
and Kirsten will call him crazy,
despite once telling you about feelings,
and how she sometimes has to cut hers out.

There will be a 14-year old boy
in a dingy, puffy, orange coat, 
who will steal donuts and milk
and sometimes sandwhiches.

And when his picture finally says
“Call 911 on sight!”
he will be begging along the side of the building
for bus money.

You’ll have to chase him out for show,
as your assistant manager watches from inside.
The boy will stay just out of reach,
grinning as he holds tight to the food,
telling you he thinks you’re pretty,
that he needs to eat to live just like everybody.

Another night, you’ll have a cigarette
and he will tell you how there’s never food,
and he doesn’t want his younger brothers to steal,
so he takes stuff sometimes.
You’ll give him bus money, just off camera,
and he’ll ask you for a cigarette before saying ‘thanks.’
The word tumbles out as he disappears into the alley. 

Drawing and digital collage from Born Again Labor Museum (2020).

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