Man In The Mirror

The drop in size this fall
has been alarming–
is what I overheard them whisper
The shoulders have hunched over
The chest collapsing into itself
My arms a mere finger.
A shadow of my former self.
I don’t see it
Yet
In photographs maybe,
those things – they’re known to be a deceiver.
Do any of us ever learn
Where the years went,
whence they began to flicker?
Against the silent advance of greying hair,
when was it
the skin began creasing into ridges,
bones jostling for space,
our own silhouette scrambling to place its owner.
But I don’t see it
Yet
We lie to ourselves all the time about
this journey on a decline
People, to us, most of it
And if the mirror does too,
What really is left of our lives?
A hazy image bouncing off a coated glass?
A patchwork of pixels held together by fog and grime?
But perhaps the mirror’s not to blame – our friend, our sentinel
And reflection –  is just the last of fortress
Standing guard to the memories slipping by.