I'LL BE YOUR MIRROR by Robert Andrew Wagner of THE LITTLE WRETCHES

Robert Andrew Wagner of The Little Wretches performs I’LL BE YOUR MIRROR (Song by Lou Reed, Poem by Robert Andrew Wagner) at The Royal, Philadelphia on April 23, 2022.

www.littlewretches.com

I’ll be your mirror, reflect what you are, in case you don’t know.
I’ll be the wind, the rain and the sunset, a light on your door, to show that you’re home.

I’ll be the bark of a dog
at seven a.m.
as you return home
from the night shift.

I’ll be a spinster
who’s been on barbiturates
since 1950.

I’ll be a seventy-two year old woman
who goes to mass every morning.

I’ll be saying to everyone who asks,
“Hey, buddy, spare a quarter,”
”No, man, spare a dime,”
while paging through the help-wanted section
of the Pittsburgh Press
at a newsstand
on Smithfield Street.

I’ll be your mirror, reflect what you are, in case you don’t know.

I’ll be a bent cola can
rattling down the street.

I’ll be minimum wage
and unpaid dinner
to dishwashers
who still can’t get the crust
off the pots and pans
no matter how hard they scrub

I’ll be rollers, belts and rails
that transport slammed
packages marked FRAGILE
that rattle all the way
from Oakland, California.

I’ll be the sweat dripping from the bandana,
on a Teamster’s head
as he screams in disgust
in an airless breathless freight truck in August

I’ll be the daily quota of beer that pacifies the United Parcel Service

I’ll be the broken windshield of a stolen Ford,
stripped and abandoned in the parking lot.
I’ll be walking home.

I’ll be your mirror, reflect what you are, in case you don’t know.

I’ll be drunk over the toilet
Heaving in the women’s room
on the thirteenth floor
of a college dormitory.

I’ll be spitting off bridges till the day I die.

I’ll be a never ending collection of defective messiahs.
Phil Ochs, Bob Dylan, Lou Reed, Patti Smith,
John Lennon, Karl Marx and Bruno Sammartino.

I’ll be the man
who stashes empty beer cases
in his neighbor’s trash
because he’s ashamed
of what the garbage man might think.

I’ll be the fly in the funeral parlor,
spilled milk in an infant’s crib,
and misspelled graffiti
on the playground shelter wall.

I’ll be the wind, the rain and the sunset, a light on your door, to show that you’re home.
When you think the night has seen your mind, that inside you’re twisted and unkind,
Let me stand to show that you are blind.
Please put down your hands.
‘Cause I see you.

I find it hard to believe that you don’t know the beauty you are.
I find it hard to believe that you don’t know the beauty you are.

I find it hard to believe that you don’t know the beauty

You are a broken record of nine-to-five
that repeats six days a week,
fifty weeks a year
for too long now.

You are three months in America,
can’t speak English,
and already lost
your tailoring business
in Ambridge.

You are sewing ripped underarms
hemming pants
and reattaching buttons
in a dry cleaning store
under-the-table.

You are long lines waiting
for an application
to J&L Steel.

You are capitalism,
May God strike you dead
if you’re not democratic.

You are in love, Charlie Brown.

You are a shivering stumble bum
huddled beneath a pile of rags
on a warehouse dock.

You are an empty soap-dispenser
and soggy paper towels
in the bus station lavatory.

You are a truant junky’s blood
on the Burger King Wall
Three blocks from Westinghouse High School.

I find it hard to believe that you don’t know the beauty you are.

Let me be your car radio
playing feel-good AM pop music
as you sit in the rush hour traffic.

Let me be the jelly donut
drying on the passenger seat
on the interminable journey home
from the night shift.

Let me be the burns on your arms
from creasing pants
in a cage of hot steam pipes.

Let me be the splinters in your hands
from climbing a wooden fence
in a neighborhood playground
on a drunk Spring night.

Let me be the CIA
so I can turn half your neighborhood
into a bunch of mindless crackheads.

Let me be alone—You can be a pain sometimes.

Let me be the soup cans and brushes
on the Warhola grave
on the hill across from the slag dumps.

Let me be the unspoken words of friendship
between a man and a woman
who will never become lovers.

Let me be the imprints on your face
when you wake up on the floor
in front of the t.v.
with your jacket as a pillow.

Let me be the burnt-out bulb on the broken lamp,
The broken lamp on the crooked coffee-table
The crooked coffee-table on the dirty throw-rug
The dirty throw-rug on the spotted on the floor.
The spot where the blood dried.
You don’t want to know

Let me be your friend.

Let me be your eyes, a hand to your darkness, so you won’t be afraid.
When you think the night has seen your mind, that inside you’re twisted and unkind,
let me stand to show that you are blind. Please put down your hands.
‘Cause I see you.

I’ll be your mirror. Reflect what you are. In case you don’t know.
‘Cause I find it hard
To believe you don’t know
The beauty you are.

source