Often I find myself
wishing I could shed my skin,
like the snake I was
sometimes compared to,
after I'd shrugged off
a relationship gone bad
much like an itchy sweater shed.
All the scars that
marred me vanishing
into an accordion
of yesterdays blues
crumpled on the back lawn.
Dancing with sinew-ed muscles
stretched with elation under
freshly renewed flesh
to the music of mimes,
lest I trouble my neighbors
with my "Never metamorphosis I didn't like."
But age is a strong glue,
it only lets go a bit at a time,
leaving some sags and wrinkles
in the upholstery I am now couched with.
Not nearly vain enough to start
slapping on promises from two ounce bottles
of cow placenta and grape-seed extracts.
Sadly my anorexic wallet sits far to lean
of the plastic it takes to rebuild my youth,
so I squint a bit when I am facing the mirror
that I now consider to be a pathological liar.
Thus I am forced to grow older gracefully,
sidestepping the exuberant toddlers
who will eventually replace me,
and forcing myself to chuckle when they play
with the slightly evident wattle
that is beginning to haunt my chin.