When I was a teen
it was inconceivable
that I might find radical
tucked in the folds
of an old man’s face.
Now in my forties
(though with a boy’s libido)
I see in the mirror
how the first lines crack
my youthful veneer.
From mid-day the dawn light
looks the same as the dusk.
Which explains why old fogies
spend so much time counting change
at the check out:
they’re protesting something.
