My hand reaches across my face
I feel my beard if I let it grow it'll turn gray
I move my fingers up to my left temple
I can just feel my pulse
Living is easy it's a biological imperative
Living well that is a little harder.
Why am I complaining? I'm not dead yet.
My hand moves down from my cheek
A hot day leaves oil and grime
And I debate installing the window AC unit
It wastes power / It eases the heat
These wrinkles and scars tell the tale
So many stories of a bygone era
When a man could kiss a woman's hand,
and be regarded as acceptable
I still sometimes do that
Along my other turned cheek I find a rough patch
A spot missed by the blade
I go in front of the bathroom mirror to take care of it
Underneath is a smooth as sin
A story yet to unfold
