Mirrors
She skipped fast through
Mustang’s door as if
to a hobby horse.
Slid away in the rear seat.
“I don’t like you.
You’ve got mean eyebrows
all pointy at the top.”
Her small bird hands
flew up point making
then covered her mouth
feathered giggles.
Wide blue eyes
in a small blue car.

Saturday morning T.V.
The Red Baron
sneaks on the screen
with monocled evil
inverted checkmarks
for eyebrows.
His sour cartoon
face and mine
screwed tight as the lid
to a pickle jar.
What lurks floating
dark, hidden
in vinegar.

Children are mirrors
they tell no lies.