It’s almost gone:
Time.
I must print poems for inspiration
before the website goes down.
The early morning sun filters
through windows, warms my back.
The printer prints.
I smear even complexion mask
over my aging face.
Where did my beautiful skin go?
Can I fix it?
Arid climate, too much suntime, what?
Must I admit to aging?
Must I see grey roots
beneath the dye?
I walk by the photo when I was 37.
What happened to that face?
I want it back!
The printer prints.
I look in the mirror, distressed.
In my family, I can expect
another twenty years.
Twenty years?
If I don’t do something to this face,
in twenty years…
The printer prints.






