As the non-sentient strands
Lose their noman's land,
Retreating slowly,
day by day,
Back across my scalp.
I regret the lost opportunity
Of never having had an iguana green crest,
Without the need for Infected bloody staples
Across the follicles,
At least,
across the skin.
I can audition
For Tibetan monks
And
Neo-nazis.
Perhaps ponytail extensions
Have come back in Samurai style,
In Goldilocks Rapunzel length.
Of course, there is the noble mustache,
And or beard,
A Dali's twiddler,
Or a Ming the merciless reaching to my feet.
As the gray winters my face,
Freezes my crown,
I begin to understand
Santa's love of caps.
Oh well!
Hair today gone tomorrow!
YOU ARE READING
My Papi's Mid-life Crisis
RandomI'm forty two and in danger of falling through the cracks of mediocrity; also known as a midlife crisis. I don't drive, so I can't buy a fancy car to fix it. I love my wife, so I can't have an affair with another woman. This book is part of my attem...
