For today’s poetry prompt let’s try a mirror poem.
I prefer bathroom mirrors
that are medicine cabinet doors—
three sections fold to produce
an infinity when in proper configuration.
Light is stranger than fiction—
photons bouncing between silvered
glass like manic tennis balls—
but I still can’t see the bald
spot when I poke my head
into that eternal corridor
because my face gets in the way.
Mirrors only reverse left and right,
as if there are just two sides
to every story.