It’s early January
Early morning
My feet are cold on the bathroom tile
And that’s not my face
Staring at me from the mirror
An older face than the one I went to bed with
Puffy skin wrinkles I don’t remember that
One gray hair does not belong to me
I am not this old man
The song of youth still
Plays in my skull my heart my
Bones ache
Eyes blur
After long day working
Hard to keep them open and
I sometimes nod off
To the late news or Letterman just like
My dad did when I was a boy
And I would look at him and think
He’s old and I
Will never be
Am not as old
As that face staring
From the mirror on this
Cold January Morning
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Good for You! ! adria