Just this morning, I was thinking
as I once more saw the wrinkling
at the corners of my eyes
that betray my best self-lies,
that I must admit, it rankles
though I know I should be thankful
that there still remain some snatches
untrammeled by crosspatches.
But these lines, not horizontals,
not the kind your husband fondles
fondly, drag my cheeks to meet
just slightly upwards of my feet.
You may gather, if you care,
that there’s humor in despair
when you’re helpless to defy it,
sneak around it or deny it …
But I still hope if I cream
before each and every dream
I’ll bring back a former me
of perhaps just seventy-three!