Should this portrait show me
with my glasses on or off?
I only need them for long distance,
but it is more honest
to depict their presence,
to explain the lines left by squinting
in blurred light. So I twirl them
round one finger: A gesture
that looks fey or pensive, but
is meant to be insouciant,
as I reveal as little as
such small details allow.
And is this the face
that lunched upon a thousand chips?
Flesh smooth while in repose,
but any show of emotion maps
the surface with contours
that describe the daunting gradient
back to being a chubby cheeked boy.
Except now, the jaw is shaded
with grey suggestions
of a beard, which grows out
silver and predicts
I would make a passable Santa Claus.
Whatever happened to the teenage
Travolta clone in hipster slacks?
My waistband measures
what my chest did then
and I only dance in public
when I want to embarrass my
daughters, though I still
have all the moves
and so much more booty to shake.
I call the music ‘gar-a-a-age’
instead of ‘garridge’ and pretend
I am unhip, while forever seventeen.
Why do I strike these poses
and conceal the artist behind artifice?
This picture tells me nothing
of the inner life, the surface
features I should imbue
with honesty.
I keep my mouth shut
and write it down instead,
so I can control the chaos.
If I became the man within,
I would not need to invent myself
and all poetry could end.
