In the Mirror

His grey-white, old man, whiskers

Resemble, superficially,

The peach fuzz down of his youth,

So often touched and marked upon

By the Thai when he was young.

Alas, that’s where, illusions end!

Gone the smooth as butter skin

Free of blemish, scar, and crease.

Gone the silky velvet feel

Replaced with bristles sharp and stiff

Gone the monks who’d cross the street

To stroke his face and offer blessings.

Perhaps this is the way of things

As one grows old and reminisces.

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