Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Forty-five in the Washroom Mirror

Treasonous hairs of grey
And me without a man.
A few unripe ones slipped away
And while I waited for the next and best
The season passed
And suddenly there were no more,
Only a strand or two of grey
Slithering through the tall grass.

Somewhere in the jungle
Men crawl on their bellies,
Cradling rifles
Not yet pointed my way.

Women greying in the mirror,
How can I be growing old
And feel so immature?
Should I grow it wild and woolly again
As in rebellious youth, my hair,
Or shear it, clip it back or up,
Dam the flow of rage and laughter?

Somewhere in the jungle
Those men are creeping closer.

I pull out the traitorous grey,
One, two, a dozen,
But as I do, I touch
How strong they are,
Thicker cable than the threads of youth,
Tougher cloth to weave.
There will be some compensation
For the lost brass ring.

And I will be ready
For the sniper's bullet
When it comes.
In a rough cotton smock
I will stand in the clearing
And face the green jungle.
Perhaps as I raise my aged arms
I will tremble.
But I will be ready.

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