Wasting Time

The vanity glass,
that has my bathroom
tattooed on its face,
revealed a ghost haunting
the brown pigment
holding life in my eyes.
I’ve never seen this before.
It must’ve been hiding
behind the front of the deodorant can,
or slipped out from
the hanging silk plant,
that occasionally moves
without a stint of wind.
I bathed my vision
in a blur of Visine drops,
when the peeling paint
on the back wall cleared,
the only thing gone
was a waste of time.