Florescent lights glaring back
reflected like so many molars,
her green dress doubled,
she lovingly wipes the cold glass wall
gleamingly clean.
Her supplies are heavy in her paper bag;
she walks at a tilt from the weight.
But cleaning the mirror she is agile and caressing,
sliding her rag over perfect smoothness,
gently touching herself in the reflection —
the mother she has been missing all these years.
© Barbara Burt
[unpublished]
BARB'S PEN 