Each morning I look in the mirror,
with a hope, and an eye to assuage
the relentless decline of my hairline,
and the telltale signs of my age.
But the mirror sees just what’s before it,
and tells the unspeakable truth:
the skin now hangs softer and looser,
than it did in the days of my youth.
There are hairs in my ears and my nostrils,
each day a new wrinkle, I’d guess,
and a grey hair to go with the others,
in my eyes the old twinkle glints less.
They say there are unguents and lotions,
that conquer the mysteries of time.
I could spend all I earn - an investment -
to extend these last years of my prime.
But I spend all my wages on living:
a night in, with sushi and wine,
or a dance with that one special person,
who thinks that my wrinkles are fine.
