by Luke Moran

WE ARE ALL reflections in the mirror of existence—
like a cocky walkie talky, my sister Alfred
reflects upon this supper day.

“yum, sunlit orange,” spits she,
(the greco-roman habit)
‘ehh—how ‘bout s’more taters?”
A mirror drenched in eggs.

Is not breakfast a reflection of the self?
A day's worth nutrients, edited down to so many calories—
I begin to beget anew.

“My broccoli knee — your ostrich ear,
we are like cellophane, darling:
Kiss me when I’m asleep,” her husband spoke,
Mirrors of ice in the freezer.

“Don’t go in the freezer y’ol geezer!”
But what’s done is already did.

Where has the time gone? Where is it going?
Je ne sais pas...
pas du tout.

I see my aluminum self in this aluminum,
crumpled up and smeared with mustard,
my hot-dog-grease-dripping forehead.

Is it true we are all wrappers,
To be cast and thrown away?
I am victim to the wind.

The wind rejects me—away to the shore.
My mustard stained-forehead drips into the ocean
(We are salty, we are one.)

Reflections on the water for birds to eat now
They eat their own reflection—
A shiny silver surface crumpled and yet to scale.
(We are salty. We are one.)

I want to feed the wilderness breakfast but the
wilderness is blind.

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