To the mirror

who grew legs just to follow me
and show me all I do in a day.
Coffee in my hand. The only hand.
Pouring water and plugging in a percolator.

To the mirror that has reflected on a flat surface
the work I have done just to spoil it.

Stain a sticky tongue of coffee
on the floor while I pour
the mirror more.

And when I work I know.
I see flakes of dirt scratch the mirror’s face.
No hand of its own for grip, the rectangle is content
to frame my effort in, sweat and pain,
and the slow spreading smile
that chases small victories away.
Tilled flat. At myself I stare at a mirror
who grew legs just to follow me here.

To show me
how far
my work is
from over.

Everything is better when there are women in the room.

What if this is an issue of equality.
Of feminism.
We are arguing the functionality of purely male-made systems of
government and economy.

Perhaps if there had been at least one woman in the room,
she would have mentioned how unprofitable people still like to eat.

Perhaps she would have brought a scale,
and given a demonstration of the true meaning
of the word equal.