Mirror, Mirror on the Bathroom Wall

Each morning I mourn my reflection 

by asking a metaphysical question:

Who is this  woman watching me wash 

a crumpled face and brush ragged  teeth?

Why do I wonder whether I am  seeing

a doppelganger goose or a transgander?

Here’s the Siri-us hitch:  I ask my reflection

 a question and I’m replied by a virtual bitch.

“Your face would turn a thousand ships the other direction,”

 she observes with bemused affection.

 Some days I’m glad for our mourning conversation, 

 when the image of a disheveled septuagenarian  

gives me a special dispensation with a yawn, 

“You will  miss me when I’m gone.”