My Morning Face

My unintended
punk morning hair.

Skin minutely flaky;
thanks, Type 2.

Eyes still baggy
in spite of sleep.

The damn bifocals,
the damn need for them.

Mirror, mirror: I begin to see
how I will end

some years from now,
although maybe I will have

fewer than I hope
to have. I will go

waving some sign
of denial

or defiance
in the midst of slow

decline, having
burned myself down

on one more night,
one more long night,

half blind yet
still seeking clarity.

I put myself
in this place

and will not likely
ever be content with it,

but while I’m here
I will look ahead.

I chose this,
now and then

readily and
consciously, now and then 

in error
or without

intention; I will
own the place

I am in and the place
where I’m going,

refuse to comb
my hair

before I step into
the next world.