This ageing body is my coat of retribution,
grudgingly worn, familiar, but of no comfort.
I find myself sniggering at my fingers’
attempts to rub out the years,
The touch itself feels leaden and crude.

Again I recite the caustic words to the mirror,
picking out my crimes one by one.
Is this contempt or disgust?
Either way, I dress to the sound of recrimination,
and paint a smile on my thinning lips.