Turning Into My Own Father
It’s of little use
I can see it all now
The mirror does not lie
I find myself looking at a man
That I do not recognise
Yet is alike, and who looks vaguely
familiar
Although I cannot quite place him
I’m sure he is not a stranger
The fullness of his face
The receding hairline
Ebbing back above his brow
A distinctive pattern
That I know from photographs
In the sepia tones of generations
Dark and hooded eyes
Look back towards me
Posing unanswerable questions
Full, fleshy uneven lips
Thickening jowls
Jaw-line set heavy
And the slackness of muscles
Etch long, deep lines within sagging
skin
And tell a story of their own
Unblinking he returns my stare
His face unreadable
Implacable and calm
But tired, deadly tired
As if this may be the last time
That he will stand so still
Allowing himself to be inspected
His features so exposed
Under the unforgiving bathroom light
And at last I am forced to look away
No longer able to hold his gaze
Nor to make the excuse
That I am too busy
To spend more time
On this sad reflection
And I am left to wonder
If his eyes will continue to follow me
Around the room
Long after I have moved away
No comments:
Post a Comment