The Bunkhouse Mirror
by Bernice Lewis

While the others are still deep in canyon dreams
I rouse myself
and catch my first glimpse
of me
in the bunkhouse mirror

Hair windblown and matted with sleep
I open one eye cautiously
and see the makings
of self-portrait

Oversunned mud colored bandana
still rings my neck
A sideways crack
across the glass’s middle
shows one eye askew
and slightly larger

the creek burbles
the river sings
the wind whistles
the day breaks

I see myself in the bunkhouse mirror
As I long to look

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