The Public Private Face

She stretches forth her arm, her open hand,
Averts her pallid face, and lifts her chin
As if she's had this whole encounter planned.

Her pose insists: "I know you understand.
You know my need. Now let the game begin."
She stretches forth her arm, her open hand.

Her finger, scarred, recalls her wedding band,
Removed in contemplation of this sin
As if she's had this whole encounter planned.

She waits there, silent, full of cold demand,
A waxen lover made of parrafin.
She stretches forth her arm, her open hand.

She is a statue sculpted out of sand
That starts to crumble as the tide comes in
As if she's had this whole encounter planned.

And at the edge of darkness, there I stand,
So captivated by this mannequin.
She stretches forth her arm, her open hand,
As if she's had this whole encounter planned.

Standing, late at night, under the street lamp on the corner,
She wonders, if she could somehow talk to herself back then,
What should she say to that girl? How could she possibly warn her

In any way that was better than the words of the woman who'd borne her,
That everything isn't always as easy as it was when you were ten?
Standing, late at night, under the street lamp on the corner,

Casting about in the dark and wondering if anyone would mourn her,
She takes a moment to think about the lonely places she's been.
What should she say to that girl? How could she possibly warn her

That the pain of the needle as it injects the brilliant inks that adorn her
Will feel like the artist's fingers on her breast in memory when
She's standing late at night under the street lamp on the corner.

She knows they're stupid as sheep; how ironic that they have shorn her
Of whatever warmed her insides. It's almost like something from Zen.
What should she say to that girl? How could she possibly warn her

How easy it was to find herself alone and lost and forlorn, her
Penance for ever having had a thing to do with men.
What should she say to that girl? How could she possibly warn her
About standing late at night under the street lamp on the corner?

When I see my own reflection,
Shall I say that I don't care?
In the glass of recollection,

Was I pure in my affection?
If I lay my spirit bare
When I see my own reflection,

I could never claim perfection
Seeing true the image there
In the glass of recollection.

In the opposite direction
(Where my ego tends to err
When I see my own reflection),

My humility's objection
Says my pride is hardly fair.
In the glass of recollection,

Automatic incorrection
Makes me wonder how I dare
When I see my own reflection
In the glass of recollection.

*clink*
*clunk*
*tink*

*plink*
*plunk*
*clink*

*skink*
*sprunk*
*tink*

*chink*
*whunk*
*clink*

*crink*
*chunk*
*tink*

*bink*
*tunk*
*clink*
*tink*