Lisa in the Mirror                                 

You spent a long time                                             
with your face in the mirror.
You composed it
like Beethoven,
painted it like Hals,
designed it,
sculpted it,
every note, stroke, splash,
beginning and ending
with how pretty it looked.
Then you turned sideways,
for the effect of the hair
falling across your shoulders,
the pertness of the nose.
How real, how artificial.
Your bust came next.
It rose as if inflated
by your stretched back shoulder blades.
And, of course, the soft pink neck,
the dainty hands,
narrow waist.
The loveliness you saw
could barely be contained
by your admiration.
Your greatest disappointment in life
was that I could have you
but you couldn't.