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you said i would always be old,
even in summer.
below my eyes are bags,
heavy, swollen, the shade of bruise.
forget dream-thirsty sleep
or soft seconds of a kiss;
i am forever
a widower's cowl.
make me then, and do not cut up
glossy magazines.  spare the lips
and chins of millionaires, save
the immaculate arch
for satisfaction's orphans.
sketch my bones in charcoal,
clumsy and askew
to learn perspective.  
ash by accident
on my brow, and do not speak
again of fractures.
you can always tell the eager
from the elderly, it is in the way
we forget to smoosh against
the glass, neglect to trace
a smiley in the steam.
i will see you soon,
i think.

24 Aug 10

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I really dig this. love the ending
 — psychofemale

ooh hooh oh really great stuff here tonight. thanks
 — unknown

I like it.
 — JaneyJane

Very good poem reflecting on coming to terms with growing old.
 — JohnW

he's only 24
 — unknown

but he does have old man pouches.
 — unknown

I love this.
 — Ilena

^he hasn't even hit puberty yet. ;)

lovely poem, i can't believe i missed out on this last summer.
i do love the way you reconstruct people parts.

where you been?  
 — jenakajoffer

I second Jen's comment.  Creative phrases and strong imagery throughout.  L20-24 could stand on it's own and brings this to a poignant close.  Excellent writing.
 — sybarite

beautiful. thanks as always
 — unknown