At age four
I look right
at myself.
My head sits
on shoulders
small and tight.
Who am I?
What happens!
How tall later?
My big nose
My black hair
My brown eyes
My weak mouth
My white teeth.
Teeth smiling hide my lie—
Loudmouth is how I vie—
Sighs stifle my cry—
Pair of eyebrows arch high—
Clothes re-direct you from my wry
grayer self, a six-footer now.
Tremens in my strut—
High on bud that calms my blue
fright. My role as good Doctor Saul
founders. Buoyancy gone.
Bits of mirrored sky tie
myself to where little Saulie sat.
Might I fly
seventy-four years back
for a quiet childhood chat?
