Wednesday Poem

Self Portrait in a Men's Room Mirror

Moustasche: roan — red flecked with grey.
Aquiline nose: from some Roman Gaius
who slipped off crested helmet, greaves and boots,
to pleasure some Semitic Ruth.

Eyes: subdued, muddy blue, dark bags below
all packed and ready to go.
Lines: one for every woe —
six divorces, ten runaway horses.

But nothing, nothing left to comb:
I'd die for a parted red sea of hair,
to toss about, fiddle with, and braid.

I figure, girls go wild for men with manes.
Or so I'm told. That's what I hear.

What else? A mole. A zit. That's it.

by Norbert Hirschhorn
from Anon Seven, 2010