Gravity wins, hands down
also boobs down,
eyelids in perpetual droop.
Here's the latest scoop:
what doesn't go down and out
(knee caps, belly buttons, derrières)
goes down and in
(wrinkles at the mouth, crinkles near the eye,
thigh flesh that sags first, then
makes little pockets
each big enough to fit a jelly bean in).
There are tricks to shoring up this sliding off:
aerobics, diet, avocado facials,
toxins injected into the skin, Pilates, swimming laps,
Oil of Olay.
But it's all a sleight of hand, a grand illusion--
in the sun, you're fifty-one
in the unforgiving bedside light
when the flying buttress bra is on the floor
or the froth of lace and chiffon gown is hanging on the door
you are what you've become
And if you're lucky and he's nearsighted or he loves you
it doesn't matter. Much.
Marriage is better that way
I've heard a husband say,
"For me, I'll always see the woman I first saw thirty years before."
For those of us without that all-redeeming memory
just do the best you can
work on the inside
which time improves
and as for the outside
be grateful you were never absolutely gorgeous
or you'd be really devastated now.
Copyright ©2012 Toby Devens
I mentioned this poem in my last post about the Olympics and got some requests on the blog and via my email at firstname.lastname@example.org to post it. Love to hear your comments!