Hotel. Birmingham. 18.8.17. The Treachery of Mirrors
It’s stifling, even with
the window open.
The bloody workmen
have woken me
with drills and diggers
with alarms that sound
like they will break
into ‘Jingle Bells.’
Every few moments,
the threat of Christmas.
Half asleep in brown soupy
light I stare at a large picture
frame that shows a slender
body prone and elegant.
I study it for a moment
and marvel at the simplicity
of line before reaching
to wipe the sand
from my blear struck eyes.
The picture moves
and the mirror
reveals its treachery.
The mattress, too soft,
hides half of my body
in the depths of its
quicksand comfort,
conspiring with my longing
for a return to youth,
to show me the lithe
and elegant body I once had.
I allow myself a moment
of vanity then switch on
the light.
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