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.
Aroil in Pain 