From the looking-glass
Where should our hearts beat but on the right?
You sleep, and all
Our silver-backed slivers
Of selves assemble
In the Mirror Café on Mirror Street.
It could be someplace, 1953,
But it’s nowhere, with no cars, no radio.
The café’s crowded, but hushed;
The street teems revenants
With nowhere else to go.
You and I mime what it is to meet –
Cannot wrestle or play poker.
– But here, how quietly we conspire,
Unsaying your greetings
In our backwards-whisper.
After the awkward handshakes,
We sit and practise lefthandedness
With our drinks. This is all we know.
Believe me: we love you, nevertheless.
At last we smile; then so do you.