Saturday, February 26th - "Chalkboard Mirror"

 I've seen your reflection

in all the mirrors of the city,

in dirty puddles on asphalt

and the backs of newly shined cars,

and above the tallest building,

peeking out faintly

through the salt shaker clouds.

Your half-honest smile

glimmers on the ground,

the only thing visible

through the thick fog

that has descended on the landscape,

rolling down from the mountains

on its irrepressible journey

to the sea. Though you don't

say my name, I know

you are looking for me

here, there, everywhere

beneath the sun. Now, hiding

your eyes beneath your fingers,

I want to pinch

your cheeks, whisper

into your ear, tell you

that I understand what it means

to hide behind trees

all your life, to run

into the arms of a stranger,

to dance beneath stoplights

just to feel the warmth

of the red lights on your bald head.

You tell me you don't

want pity, don't want me

to look at you any

differently, from the way

I would, if you were just

some businessman

in a torn suit, walking

down the street

with his hands

in his pockets. I say

I've been looking

at you, differently,

all these years, all the time,

anyway.