Arlene Corwin writes

Obsessed

(having fun with aging)

Yesterday at lunch, friends told me

I’m obsessed with wrinkles.

I agree.

There’s not a wrinkle I don’t see.

Sunning leg raised high

And on the thigh,

Not quadruped

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?