Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Sunday, August 21, 2016

Sonnet #50

In the morning, I look myself in the mirror,

Brush the night grime from my teeth and gums,
I lean in close enough to see my eyes clearer,
without my glasses on. As close as I come,
As blind as I am, I could smell his breath
if he had any. Feel grateful for each gray hair
I came to my graying honestly, no wealth
came to me, but my health is fine, my stare
into my own eyes reminds me I am not
dead, I am not pretty, I am an echo of the mighty
whose birthright was to stand, but I am not
mighty. I am father's face, my mother's eyes
Let me see this man I am, let me call him out
Each morning accept myself enough, a daily rout 

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