Good Grief


03 Feb

My eyes receive the world,
approving most nuance for free,
yet disapprove of little taunts
in the looking glass looking back at me.

Rabbit-eyed allergy stares hang
in rings of sleepless, fatherly nights;
wrinkles from squinting into a sun,
point to the subtle scar under my eye.

The ears can’t hear my heavy sigh
of the brow shading baby-blue eyes;
hair that threatens to leave me at once,
proves heredity is not always nice.

Yet I live like a child near unspoiled wilds,
The gift of kids play under my roof,
I still have the rare skill to distance things,
and peace from my doctor’s good news.


My city of music hold the decibel high,
these eyes draw smiles like a spell,
my hair hangs around when for others it left,
the discouragement of a mirror can be hell.