(having fun with aging)
Yesterday at lunch, friends told me
I’m obsessed with wrinkles.
There’s not a wrinkle I don’t see.
Sunning leg raised high
And on the thigh,
But paperéd crepe paper
Skrinkly, wrinkly. Sigh!
Oh my, this thigh I spy,
No beauty as in days of old
When firmness held
And luster shone
Now aging wrinkled skrinkled one.
My friends are right, I am obsessed.
The sight arrests and stunts my growth.
Another friend observed, “It’s both
Neurosis and not true.
There aren’t as many as you think” (wink, wink).
So does it comfort me to hear her say it?
Still a symbol and a test: test of vanity and ego,
Symbol of the fact that we go.
Having no way to delay it,
I give in, and keep on livin’ while believin’ it’s okay.
Is that really an obsession?