The face they see when
I walk past and smile
Is not the face I see
When I gaze into my bathroom mirror
And manage to fantasize away
The wear of those long decades.
The face I see in
That soft-lit mirror,
Practicing a youthful grin,
Is not the face I’m forced to view
In photos that refuse to lie,
And offer me a reality
That breaks my heart to look at.
How can such a  buoyant spirit
Come packaged in such a shopworn case.
ljm