Through the Looking Glass

Lost my looks
some time ago, at least
that’s how it feels,
despite appeals of protest
from the man in my life.

Gone more grey, recently
from the strife of just being alive.

Sure, I scrub up well,
and maybe only I can tell
my hair is thinning
and a thickness is winning
at the middle.

I’m not exactly an old biddy yet,
but there’s no surprise in eyes anymore
when I reveal my age.

I look in the bathroom mirror
and wonder when it happened?
There must have been a solitary day
where I crossed that line
between youth and … anyway,

don’t know where I’m going with this,
and then I think,
nobody’s waiting for it—there’s no deadline,
all these changes will still be here
to write about tomorrow …
unless I’m not.

*wink, wink

Kathleen Mortensen © 2017

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Now that’s funny!

Funny,

how pop stars and politicians used to look so old—
now they look like kids;

I never liked kalamata olives,
then one day, I did;

T.V.’s just not as good,
as the book I’m halfway through;

some words just don’t feel right in my mouth,
like “awesome” (others too);

the mirror used to be an obsession,
now I really don’t give a damn;

radical fashion was all the rage,
now it could be my Hallowe’en costume;

everybody seemed to live forever,
now wakes and funerals take up space in my calendar.

Before you know it, it’s 3:00 p.m.
Before you know it, it’s Thursday again.
Before you know it, it’s New Year again.

Funny.

Kat Mortensen©2011