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
Experiments in Poetry 