Original Poem 10: As I Bathe

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I wrote this poem in trochaic tetrameter catalectic form (or headless iambic tetrameter), but the second stanza accidentally became trochaic tetrameter.

As I Bathe

I, a quarter century young,
bathe one night ’til hands are prunes,
pink and rough like kitten tongues,
roses dry and dead in June.

I, a quarter century young,
rinse mascara from my lashes,
brittle, black strokes coming undone,
floating specks, drifting ashes.

I, a quarter century old,
gaze anew at faux aged hands.
Leathered flesh the future holds.
Fast falling seem the hourglass sands.

January 2014

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