Mirror Image
Who is this stranger in my bathroom mirror?
The ghost of an ancestor? If only he were clearer...
Where are my specs? Damned things are never there,
Wait--they rest above, perched in my hair.
What hair? Don't mock my shining pate,
Premature loss has always been my fate,
And hair's not the only thing to disappear:
I haven't had my manhood up at all this year,
Although I'd never know, below this gut,
When conditions might be ready for a rut.
Thank goodness, I've been spared the chance
For medical emergency, should I attempt that dance!
Yet I surely grudge the possibility I'd meet
A cute responder, who'd sweep me off my feet.
Come to think, I'd no doubt be splayed already:
Even at the best of times I'm none too steady,
And such an opportunity to spread my bony knees
Would be lost, in circumstances sure to seize
This worn heart, which thank goodness still provides
That essential spark, and keeps my hopes alive.
This poem is copyright 2006 Merkin, to whom comments may be sent.
