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.”