After a week of unpacking,
Assembling, organizing and arranging,
Waking up seems a little different now,
The morning has a threat,
A different image in the glass,
Backing down from the mirror,
The cold white cheeks,
Green eyes bulged behind a nest of wrinkles,
The high hairline, still reddish blond, but rising,
Looking tired, looking like the years.
And a slow migraine etches itself in,
It writhes into my temple
And rests awhile there, just pushing, pushing out…
I want to go out, ah Hell! I wanna socialize,
But I'm looking/feeling old and tired,
And it's too soon yet for all that worry,
But that's the way it looks,
That's what the mirror says.
So I push against the day, pray for rain,
Start laughing at my vanity,
Still I pray for rain,
Hitting high Temptation tunes:
I wish it would rain….Give it up,
ask my darling as she rubs
Her own morning eyes:
Who's your pretty man?
Who's the song in your heart?
She smiles, says, you are.
And I close the bathroom door,
Another morning conquered,
Another day embraced.
