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Poetry: Past, present and future

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It catches my eye in the rear view mirror, one hair,

silvery

At the next red light, I extract it like a noxious weed from a lawn

because I see myself another way,

carelessly walking on a wall, long legs, sparkly miniskirt

"Would you like to see my roses?" he said, looking up,

feathered brown hair slopping into his eyes

I would and I did

Now, pieces of a marriage, scattered, a carpet of fallen leaves that I scuff through

Sometimes I wake up in the dead of night, forgetful, smiling, but there's only a cat, slumped on my hip, sighing its soft snores

"Your skin is nice," the bartender said,

"for someone your age."

Worse will come:

not one silver thread

but hundreds, spooling out of my head

lines like rivers on a map delicately branching in every direction

I'll be wise but unable to walk on walls due to brittle bones

so I'll watch my daughter walk them

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