The Manic Mirror Maid of Massachusetts Avenue

Mirror, mirror, in your hand:
(one reflection if by land)
tell me, of the two you see,
who is fairest — you, or me?

Is there some thing you hope to spy,
echoed in your own two eyes?
What is it that you pray to find
in those of us who walk behind

you — enemies, or maybe friends?
The prospect of your madness’ end?
Three blocks walked in every way,
along the same cow path each day,

both ways looked when crossing streets —
the fate you left as fate you meet.
But sallow glass won’t keep you safe
from that which lies beyond your face.

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