The Eye of the Beholder
She’s getting more decrepit, by degrees.
Her heart is threatening to go on strike,
with kidneys out in sympathy. She’s like
a mole without her glasses, and the knees,
now varicose, resemble Stilton cheese.
Her mouth works like an oxygen-starved pike
each time she reads. A portrait by Van Dyck
would show more movement in its eyes than these.
But when I look at her, I see the girl,
the one I met that first time in the square,
bandana loosely swathing careless curls,
the little smile that made me stop and stare.
To me, she’s always lovely, always new:
for things there are that Time can not undo.
Copyright © Michael Coy | Year Posted 2017
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