Spit-shine Eternity

or at least wipe off the dust.
It gets old to always stare into
the future as if it’s looking back

(if a mirror reflects all
mirrors does it reflect
itself? Know your
paradoxes!):

Cleaning every memory in salt
water and fear drowning;
wishing for steak but hating
the wait of a heating stove;
loving everyone and drinking alone;
getting drunk and still loving everyone;
getting drunk and writing it down.

A great piece of gauze
blocks the sun, a slap-dash
fix for the cracks that dribble
out the dawn in something a little
less definable than a puddle
but still creeping towards the edge
of my lap. I forgot

that I could still want so much
even when full, but looking closer
into the mirror I need to shave
before I’m ready to ask
for anything.

-C.S. Henderson