I’m sure we’ve not been introduced.
Tho she seems somewhat familiar,
I don’t know her, to tell the truth.
Has to be someone’s grandmother,
With graying hair and sagging skin,
Bristly eyebrows meet each other,
Crow’s-feet, wrinkles, and double chin.
No surprise she doesn’t linger
At the mirror in the hall.
She’s no longer a dead ringer
Of her photograph on the wall.
I would never be judgmental,
For I’m sure I’d do the same
Should time be to me so cruel
That like her image I became.
All at once I’m disconcerted
By the strange person that I see.
Quickly turning, eyes averted,
I realize that person’s me.
By Yvonne Golden
01/04/25