The following poem was written for a contest at Wild Poetry Forum "Mirror Mirror on the Wall" in which the participant poets had to write a poem about themselves looking at themselves in the mirror. Any comments appreciated. The contest closes this evening, so I still have time to tweak it and improve it. Same can't be said for my sad old body. Ha ha.
Scrag-End
...the maitre d' said, "You're looking good." People
only say that when you're old and saggy, and it just
irritates the bejesus out of me.
................................................Garrison Keillor
So there I was reflected in the mirror, saggy,
bulgy, potbellied, and yes, those titties derided
in a Merseyside pub in the Sixties (mates hustled
me out before I gave the bloke a knuckle sandwich),
and now it's the scrag-end of the year, chill
last leaves clinging to oak and sycamore.
A guy with hair like Jesus crosses the street
with a Starbuck's latt?. You don't see long hair
like that much anymore, but I never did wear
it long as Lennon ? just brushing my collar.
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Never the hippie despite the odd flowered shirt
and rainbow pants evoking derision. What happened
to the agile boy with wavy hair, now this fat bald
bugger, pate a-shining in the glass? But I never knew
that lithe kid, never Michelangelo's David-presentable!
Right hip higher than the other, worse when tired
and a-hurting: an old geezer po-ate impersonating
a pale sack of bones awaiting the bone man to haul
him off in his cart with his knacker's-bound nag.
I still plug away even if I labor in a boneyard.
Oh, Father, look kindly down on me, I?m a satirist,
a proud and pathetic cartoon of myself; but pitiful
as I am, I am still your son enjoying your bounty.
Christopher T. George
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