††† Rarely, soapy-handed, I stop
and look. Who is that?
Iíve seen that face
in pictures, younger,
smiling, hair dark and glossy.
††††††††††††††††††††††††††† Wrinkles covered by
††††††† beard and bifocals, I might pass
In pictures from my first wedding,
just a decade and a half ago, just yesterday.
††††††† Slimmer, touched with gray,
††††††† At my sisterís seder
††††††† the day before yesterday
††††††† trim, with moustache waxed and a head
full of grand, grandiose dreams.
††††††† The wax sits on a shelf in the closet.
††††††† Where are the dreams?
††††††† Smaller visions seep into their emptied space.
††††††† Play center field for the Yankees? Cancel that.
††††††† Make a family? Enter a check mark.
††††††† Tear up the Pulitzer acceptance speech.
††††††† Write a poem?
††††††††††††††† Add up the score.
Subtract the losses.
Rinse off the past.
Start the next day.
This poem first appeared in My Poem Rocks (2009).
Used here with the authorís permission.