For the Mirror
This is no eulogy for a taut belly or pert breasts--
Still,
the eye can't help but fall
upon the fallen.
Upon the settled.
No--this is a little birthday bouquet
for my pale, flaccid friend in the glass.
Some sweet scented blooms for the loose jowls,
the wrinkling, shrinking lips,
the tired neck
with its ever creeping crepe.
Here are flowers for those beloved and busy hands
grown from fresh and fumbling
to knobby, speckled, skilled,
and useful (that best of words)--
And, for this moment,
stilled and folded demurely
like good natured hens.
And for that little bulge across your middle--
That monument to your best gift--
Two bright pink babies for my arms,
for the world.
For this selfless thing, a reverencial rose.
And a nosegay for the--
shall we say--sturdy thighs,
haunted by their lost cartwheels
and tickled by wispy ghosts of miniskirts.
And a posy too for those stalwart ankles,
long beyond the saucy insolence
of strappy stiletto heels.
Alas.
Here--
A bouquet for you today,
and a toast to spent bliss.
A toast to ravenous loves sated.
And to a quieter heart encased in a doughier breast.
For you old girl in the glass--
a wink,
a little grin.
We've had some good times you and I.
My beloved old cohort, my accomplice,
my steady dependable sidekick.
Flowers for you on this day.
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