Mirrors Of Home

I wake from the infinite possibilities of my dreams
to a spot-the-difference locked between silver and glass,
familiar templates for the expectations of the coming day.

I set my features to match the projected patterns,
my eyes wide open, my teeth a creamy white
painting by numbers the perfect shade for my lips.

I practice a pose until I find the acceptable balance
indicating patience, a parent’s compassionate smile,
and ‘hope you have a good day at school’.

The speed of my changeover would impress mechanics,
the assertive brow (neither aggressive nor passive)
approachable, a team worker, but don’t mess with me.

Just before I leave, I cast one final glance,
lingering to make final, tiny adjustments,
snip, the hairdresser removes stray hairs.

Later, I see only the unexplored,
adding layers to the infinitive depth,
and what I want to see in the mirror
is an image that I do not recognise.