Who is this stranger in my bathroom mirror?
The ghost of an ancestor? If only he were clearerÖ
Where are my specs? Damned things are never there,
Wait - they rest above, perched in my hair.
What hair? Donít mock my shining pate,
Premature loss has always been my fate,
And hairís not the only thing to disappear:
I havenít had my manhood up at all this year,
Although Iíd never know, below this gut,
When conditions might be ready for a rut.
Thank goodness, Iíve been spared the chance
For medical emergency, should I attempt that dance!
Yet I surely grudge the possibility I'd meet
A cute responder, whoíd sweep me off my feet.
Come to think, Iíd no doubt be splayed already:
Even at the best of times Iím 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
.

 


 

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