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.
T. Allen Culpepper