Prematurely Grey - May 1 2024

 

Prematurely Grey

May 1 2024

I’ve let the beard grow out.

Prematurely grey, I’m tempted to say;

except it isn’t premature,

it’s just about on time

for a man of my age.

I look at my reflection

and don’t recognize myself.

I see Hemingway.

A ruddy-faced Santa Claus.

A survivalist,

who lives off grid

and can field dress a deer.

So I feel like an imposter

hiding behind this beard,

posing as debonair

adventurous

avuncular,

my weak chin disguised

weathered skin covered.

Wondering

if it will ever stop itching

and how much food it’s caught.

Before too long

I will shave it off.

Will once again

be the fresh-faced young man,

who flirted with a patchy beard

and sinister looking moustache.

Who wished he looked older

settled

more sure of himself.

Not knowing that his older self

would one day look back

with wistful feelings of envy and loss

unconscionable nostalgia.

Which are all unworthy thoughts.

Because all of life is loss

and envy is corrosive.

Because nostalgia

is a false emotion,

conveniently ignoring

the tribulations of youth,

the fears and insecurities

angst and uncertainty.

And unworthy

because the past is always with us, no matter what;

either hiding behind a beard

or whispering into an ear

a word no one wants to hear

  —  imposter.

This poem began with a passing glance in the mirror. You have to understand that I almost never look in the mirror. And also that the beard has never been this full.

As usual, I had no idea where it — the poem, that is (!) — would go. But feel pleased that despite the light-hearted beginning, I was able to say something worthwhile and not just mildly amusing. This change in tone is always difficult. I hope it works here.