skin

in a dirty mirror the old man
looks for a trace  of the little boy inside
he wonders if feelings had a face
would it look as bad
as the one looking back at him
no, he thinks, it would be young,
naive, blemished,
but still new.
he would like to meet that little boy
with a face that doesn’t hang
with a dog’s droopy jawl,
a seafarer’s complexion painted
on his cheeks.
the boy: always learning, but not necessarily
getting better.
the old man doesn’t see
the little boy looking back
through yellow eyes
and white eyebrows
and years that have grown
into frowning wrinkles on his forehead and his eyes
saying:
‘Old Man, gravity made your skin sag
looking sad
but I shaded your view in dubious colors
let you believe that the curtians behinds these eyes
held a playground that time did not touch
where hurt was an abstract, no fact
I kept you from seeing that old man
captive in the arms of a young boy
wrapped in calloused old skin.
remember, when you don’t recognize
the soft belly and the arthritic hands,
that your skin is the dam
that kept your body from spilling
six decades of hope from washing up
on the streets of New York
where you sleep.”