Looking in the mirror, it is apparent:
the younger man I knew has gone away.
The image that I see, indeed, is older;
a more drawn face, hair a hint of gray.
I used to have strong springs within my legs,
and bounding up the stairs was done with ease.
Now those springs apparently have rusted--
from calves and thighs there comes a plea of please.
(As I reflect I realize
what Father Time has hid.
It sure would be a pleasure though
to welcome back the kid.)
How time sculpts lines and furrows on the face!
A younger me is pictured in a book.
That book has dust and sit upon the shelf;
Alas, this me is now another self.
This shape lets sag determine what is does;
the washboard’s gone--the stomach has gone slack.
It’s as if time pulls on the abdomen;
that youthful wonder just will not come back.
(As I reflect, I come to know
the loom of time will weave.
However much that may be true,
the kid will never leave.)
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