Waistlines and laugh lines, expanding in uncomfortable ways,
and I never imagined myself in these shoes that I walk in.
This image staring back at me in the mirror is not the person in my head. It is
some slight of hand, an obvious interruption to my well-planned life.
Interruption or corruption, or a little of both?
And I am having trouble getting used to this face I see
and the entropy,
and this me that’s me,
when I thought I had discovered the fountain of youth in my words and rock and roll and frizzy hair that now falls
thin and white to frame this person who should be me but isn’t or
When you are 20, 30 seems a long way off, and 60 is a never.
When you are young, you can’t imagine, and yet . . . here it is.