His eyes positioned deep beneath his brow
are blue above a furred and crooked nose.
Long wrinkles carve his cheeks as if a plow
were sun-impelled to sow the years in rows.
Imperfect teeth appear behind his lips
and hair is curling gray from out his ears.
The man has bruising sharp and agile hips
and lumps on limbs that multiply with years.

For 60 days I found him beautiful,
and then my passion ebbed to pallid end.
His company no longer had a pull,
and soon I sorted him a sort of friend.

Then even that devolved –
our final squall a tidal wave I keep this to recall.

This entry was posted in Aging, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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