Image by karma-police via Flickr
Every morning she awakes before light
and dresses in saclike garments which prevent
her frame from being viewed in clear sight.
Many of her gowns likened to a tent.
She polishes the looking glass each weekend,
the reflection never seen.
What does she see at the end of her hand?
Only the spots that she scrubs clean.
Never flashy, scarcely managing neat,
suspect of even a single, warm word,
her tendency is to retreat
from the intent of familiar regard.
No rouge or powder to veil her face,
no beauty regimen or exercise,
no attempt to make leather into lace.
From all bodily embellishments she shies.
The torment of imperfection
does not keep her from trying.
Her own uncomely reflection
is truth, hopeless to be lying
Copyright ©2009 Mary Ritch