Soliloquy on a Mirror

by Drew Rupard

At some point you will find yourself outside
the things that are yours, past the porch,
looking out to others’ cars, others’ well-tended

lawn mowers, others’ stars given to them by boyfriends
as birthday presents. Even love, even altruism belongs
to someone, even nebulous gods, even God

resting on a planet somewhere with his chair
pointed toward Earth. You can look high and low but you won’t
find signs of Something Else—what

do the mirrors inside the house reflect
when you aren’t looking in them? A person
just like you, but opposite? A dark fog?



No—the chair. The contours, the wood stain,
the fine quatrefoil, the broken yoke, the seat
that has had so many residents,

among them: some maker, testing it, so long ago.


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