Reflection

She cups her face with both hands,
and a nude figure
plays Simon says
in front of her.
She interprets the
bulge from her hip
as a signal to
shake her hips,
lips slip into
a pop doo wop.
She unfurls a curl
as if she were
rescuing an injured insect
and tries to make it straight.
Resolving that it will roll back,
she tosses it,
one toss away from a
shampoo endorsement.
At five,
there is no reflection,
only parts that make her
whole.
I wonder how she knows that
ashy knees and
dimpled rears
deserve a tune.
Perhaps,
she has seen me for more
than I have seen
myself.