My greying hair sticking out
like an ugly wart is actually
a make up for my childhood
years, now distorted, but still
growing up on crutches. So the face is the same, though
the body although overgrown is still like remote sensing catching
those early bones and structure. Now I want to further grow and throw out
all the remnants of the past to be an old man, coughing and withering like sick men in hospital beds. The problem is that childhood catches up with mirages and dreams that break, make even and then disappear. So the only option is to be real about age, and the senior citizen certificate. Poetry, however, is a foil to sudden mists and wavelengths
which outmanoeuvre truths or realities. Then take a book and read, eat, sleep. No grandchildren. Do the homework for your daughter and take poetry trips.
