Prose

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