Me
I seldom look in
the mirror anymore,
my razor-blade with an
edge of jagged rust –
gave up “Creature features”
with my early need to scare
a girl into my arms at the theater
a shower a day takes care of
most else – but when hairs, none
left on the head, become the
household's main blight, an old
barber's scissor in my wife's
scepter-ed hand, make my beard
a bit less~ the unkempt sight.
The best of me has long been
my dabbling in art and altruism;
Ila and I, two of a kind in these
respects – likeness ending there
for she has always been the Fashion
Plate, while unkind neighbors
have often whispered, why on earth
did she choose such a common
looking mate?!
Poetry is a religion I think,
priest and priestess of words:
like the tunnels of worms and
the wings of birds our spans
high and low, depending on
the inspiration, composing both
gems and turds.
Though my body has
slowed – the downward inclining
normal senior trend – my spirit
seems yet, most times, to be rising,
though audibly creaking its upward
arching positive bend; myself long of the
opinion that the sun is a bit more concentrated
when in an old poet's/poetess's experienced
capable hands, expressed in his/hers well seasoned
perhaps overly cured, highly distilled flatulent
eyes, with just minor joint-less joint-sighs,
I dutifully pen heartfelt lights –
writing new, lustrous dawns over all
my frequented restroom, therefore only
somewhat restful golden nights
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