Bitter Reflections

Look at you,
edging toward middle age,
strong jaw beginning to recede into overfed fat.
No necked freak,
you sallow, plump Amazon.
Stray hairs sparking cold silver at your temples,
little black bags indented beneath your eyes
beady behind your bent glasses,
Brow wrinkled permanently,
more through consternation than deep thought.

Too many of your days and nights are spent in shallow conversation
with humans rendered colder entities behind flickering black letters.
Watching tv and devouring books are your
desperate attempts to flee the reality
that you have fashioned.
Save the idiot box
for when you can't move from your rocker.

You foolish creature,
constantly fascinated with the stray sparks between your ears.
You'd better grab one, sister, and nurse it into flame.
Life's winter can get mighty cold, they say.
You better get off your ass soon,
cuz that wood won't stack itself,
and dotage's warm memories are stoked by the sweat of youth.

And for chrissakes, stop looking in the mirror so much.