Objects In The Mirror Poem by John Allen

exiting one snowstorm
another hits outside the
mud caked van as
tires curve onward with
a scolding insistence
that seems almost appropriate.
noses run with powdered
leakage, viscous
debris leaving
unblessed shrouds on tissues;
the lost house
a tired lover's
furious expression
before leaving for the final time
a child's last stare,
led away in hues
of blue and red that night the
neighbors finally called.
he fingers
his seamless shirt,
not bothering
to wonder where the threads went
not this time.
a man with scarlet skin
and green eyes like a
snapping lizard
tries to engage him
in conversation
about yesterday's news,
the leaking print he uses to
smudge his own seat.
in the bony rearview
mirror the people look
like sick zebras or failed
contortionists.
a series of old
cottages rush into view,
snowcapped and called rehab.
next to him, a woman
with scaly legs and eyes
like tense alarm bells
chatters with a few teeth
that were fortunate;
'god', 'god',
she mutters again and again
as though the trees stripped
bare with whistling wind
should burst into a crown
of thorns and bleed
just for her