Rodney Jones: Heroism at the End of Middle Age

It is when I look at myself
in the mirror above the vanity
that I am transformed to Uncle Larkin

as he jaunts from the shower
after twenty four holes of golf,
smelling beautifully of talcum;

as he engages the cruise
and glides through rolling lawns,
resplendent in yellow

blazer and lime green slacks,
in matching Cadillac and socks,
I ride beside him, smiling

as if posing for a stamp,
and know beauty is a lie—
I do not have to become John Keats

to see the light brown curls
of my hair in the mirror
have been white for years in photographs.

More by this author