My Face

My face in the cold light of morning looks
Creased and deeply bemused
Like the crumpled leaves of a very old book
A novel that’s been harshly used
Like a discarded paper bag
Or an unwanted Christmas gift
The years have caused the skin to sag
But the fear of the needle precludes a lift
My chins in the morning number
Three and sometimes four
As into the bathroom I lumber
And lean against the hard door
Refusing to look at my reflection 
I step into the shower
Where the comfort of steam and recollection 
Gets me through this hour
I know how my face in the morning appears
But not for the rest of the day 
I have been practising all of these years
Just keeping my eyes turned away

©️jj 2019