If I Am 80

I won't wither and scorn

Nor kindle and break

This crinkle smile, my rare currency

I practice now so I know what to do

You're welcome here

Those not buried, those younger than me, those yet to be born, those who still can.

I may reminisce but make no mistake.

The blood coursing through these veins is current

I'll mix with you, serve spanking fresh smart with my brand new food

1963 wasn't the goddamned depression after all

You'll come back again on your own accord

My face won't shoo you away with cracks and furrows made bruised and bullied from years of grousing

Soft white linen is what I want

Oft laundered, smoothed by hand, gentle creases, parchment or birch

Look at the texture! You'll exclaim

Or maybe that will be me.

My mornings will look like this.

I'll wake up and rise.

Tricking 20 lost years back into whatever my limbs are now

The task of being upright achieved I make my way out the door

Somebody will hold it open, or I'll wait

Thank you. I'll  say

To you, to all, to life, to no one in particular.

Hard Words For The Plastic Surgeon

The good news lies in your steady hands

Where others have butchered, you caress

You've coaxed away every worry they've ever had

Like Picasso, Monet, and the minimalists rolled into one

You're everywhere, you're ubiquitous

You settled early in Westchester

Then caravanned along the East side

From 5th avenue to Park

Afterwards you flourished your way downtown

You're nothing if not prolific

I see your handiwork in the waiting rooms, the crosstown bus.

I see it at the luncheon and the ritual meeting of the Town Car after school

I feel its presence after Labor Day

Everyone taut, everyone so well rested

You're selling the before before the after

Before the affairs, the failures, the tarnish, the nest egg

The days of wine and roses that never really were - not really

You're artisan of a beautiful dream

Your best work done before you've done any work at all

It's not your doing when it falters

All the luxury on God's green earth

Can't approximate the winsome, the dewy, the gamine, the glade

No abundance of steely resolve

Can turn cloying potpourri into fresh iris petals

You can't bring back the night on the town, the shared cigarette, the waking at noon

A quick splash of water from the bathroom sink, then out to do it all over again

There's no replicating the debutant ball, the grand entrance, even the catcall

With that wide gash of a mouth or the over stretched canvas

So tight it hurts us all to look

I hate to be the one to tell you

It gets worse before I'm done

My answer rests with the faint whiff of formaldehyde

The apology implicit in the bandages

The sad eyes lolling in Plasticine

It's the sting of knowing

The best of the best is still not good enough