Face In The Mirror

[This was inspired by a post of the same title, at Long Hollow, written by the most excellent Barbara Shallue. As a matter of fact, the poem below is her work, and good work it is. I have made a few slight changes from her original in order to reflect my own experiences.]

Face in the mirror

You are the face I recognize, the face I know, the face I greet each morning and try to rationalize a reason not to shave.

Yes, the face I love, despite the lines and scars and spots and occasional crusty stuff in my eyelids where in hell does that come from?

You and I have traveled together, collected mementos of Life and other board games.

Your eye-crinkles and mouth-creases... reminders of laughter and reasons to smile and the many, many, many, many alcoholic beverages and cold pills.

Deep lines between your brows... etched during late nights learning to count cards in another vain attempt at not having to work 9-to-5 anymore.

Tiny scar on your forehead... souvenir of the time you used your parents bed as a trampoline and cracked your skull against the headboard when you were three. Or was it twenty-six? I forget.

Dark spots... I've never understood why only part of me freckles and the rest stays white. What's up with that? Freckles are like a permanent tan, but only on part of you. That's really messed up when you think of it.

(And how did I get this one freckle on my penis? I don't recall losing my pants at the beach. And where's my underwear? While we're at it, whose dog is this? And why is he looking at me that way?)

Remember The Alamo!

Is Barbara still reading? You really should visit her place. That's the least she should get out of this. And, anyway, this isn't as funny as it would be if you had seen her original and compared the two.

My Life

Better yet, MY WIFE.

My face.

(Or is it a canned ham...)

Soon, with more better stuff.