In the mirror, I look tired,

creeping age beginning to make me

with deepening lines of worry and laughter,

skin roughening from sun and wind,

losing its elasticity,

shadows under eyes reddened

by dropped-in medicine for glaucoma,

a few broken capillaries near the nose.


Not too bad for a man past fifty,

but no longer the thirty-something

I still picture in my head.


I can’t ask where they’ve gone,

the years that did this to me, crossing

time and space, dragging me

along on their road trip,

nor do I think I could start over,

even could I pick and choose

what to repeat and what to skip.


Still, I can help distrusting people

who claim that they have no regrets.


Copyright 2014

T. Allen Culpepper

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