Even my pubic hair’s gone grey.
Tufts bristle from my ears and nose.
Why this bald patch on top? God knows . . .
If life were something lived in play
I’d laugh at what the mirror shows:
a second chin, a stoop, the way
I pull my stomach in to close
the gap with when I could compose
myself as poetry, not prose.
First published in Snakeskin 232, September 2016