130

What hair he has upon his head is gray,
and where none grows his pate reflects the light.
The cigarettes he smokes, a pack each day,
Infuse their scent across his ample height.
He does not have the body of a god,
nor does he have the stamina of youth.
He early retires for the night. He’s flawed.
He puts sticks up his nose: he’s quite a goof.
The scars he carries on body and heart
run deeper in him than their marks suggest.
The damage they’ve caused him to stop this start.
His fear to himself he finally confessed.
Yet all of these “defects” make him much more real
than any imagined or dreamt “ideal.”