Poverty of Mirrors

You wake these mornings alone and nothing can be forgiven; you drink the last swallow of warm beer from the can beside the bed, tell the stranger sleeping on the floor to go home. It's too easy to be no one with nothing to do, only slightly worried about the light bill more concerned with how dark day gets. You walk alone on moist pavement wondering what color rain is in the country. Does the world out there revolve around rooms without doors or windows? Centering the mirror you found in the trash, walls seem closer and you can never find the right way out, so you open the fridge again for a beer, find only rancid milk and drink it whole. This all tastes too familiar.