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Mere Image

Gregorian chants shuttle me to work dovetailing
with the austerity of back roads.

I busy myself with laundry.
My nights fill with remotes.

I’ve removed my shoes to quiet my appearance
mumbling the same lines over and over -

a soap star dressed in seventeenth-century.
My image fails in the bathroom mirror.

My ophthalmologist ever the optimist prescribes glasses
but the facts remain a magic square.

I’ve a mind to return them for a full refund
though the salesperson who works on commission

was very helpful going on at great lengths
about the images mirrors have held for centuries

detailing the perspective needed to capture
the true vanishing point.