Wrinkles Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

He traced her lines,
you know the little precious ones
that she finds horrible,
and has, in sheer despair
spent a small fortune to erase,
how can you, so said he
wipe out the signs of time,
it is our destiny, and Nature's way
cross linking is what does occur,
she glared at him as if to say
that men need to accept
a share of guilt in this,
that modus operandi
a testament to time, gone by.
Not idly though, he said.

He slid, with total ease
into the linger mode,
and spent sufficient time
at each small curve and dip;
saliva may restore the look,
its healing properties been known
for centuries. She smiled,
and a small patch of rouge
appeared, a little princess flush.

The hours drifted by behind the shades,
not sure about the rationale of this,
the picture of insatiability,
which was, now at the hint of Dawn,
transformed by androgens and such,
he took the time to ascertain
that she would be aware,
(trance held her tight) ,
of the now urgent need
to venture to the depths of this.

All regions would be subject to
the stresses of free radicals,
(though not the human kind) ,
and he would volunteer to go
and see, observe, inspect,
as the computer says, fix all
selected items and restore,
he was a man whose conscience taught
the need for thoroughness in things
that did concern the heart,
and all of that, you know, romantic stuff.

It was, he later found, a task
that would ensure the need
for maintenance AND for repair,
a lifetime of new blemishes and marks.

And when the time came that he felt
how so much subcutaneous fat had gone,
which took away the suppleness of youth,
he used his backed-up files,
which were composed of livid memories.