Richard K. Kent

Moving the Mirror

               

 

The mirror in the mover’s truck

for the moment isn’t moving. Mis-

 

placed, a summer sky glistens in its

depths, vertical waterfall of light

 

conjured in a child’s cave of cloaked

furniture upended. For some reason

 

the movers have disappeared—partially filled,

their load left unattended. But no one’s

 

around to care. The afternoon quiet;

the sidewalks empty; only the mirror,

 

once again, plays attentive host 

to a sun’s insistent brightness.

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