Portrait of the poet

Portrait of the Poet

My mirror’s nature is mutable,

Its function changes with

the length of the day's shadows.

In the morning it is a mother

with a checklist for the day:

face shaven,

teeth brushed,

shirt tucked in (like a badly made bed).

It tells me, “You are ready to set out

into the careless, brutal world.”

In the evening it is a trusted

counselor, dispensing advice

for the night:

“Yes” to this shirt,

“No” to that haircut,

“Yes, you may catch someone’s eye.”

(My mirror isn’t afraid to lie.)

But oh, that 3:00 A.M.

mirror is the mirror of

unvarnished truth, of

hard and harsh honesty.

My flesh is collapsing like

the Greek economy. My

joints ache like the Tin Man’s,

and my face cracks like

an old pie crust. “I am

a troll now,” I think.

A troll. Back in the 80s,

when AIDS was the great

unsolved mystery, and it

seemed A Flock of Seagulls

would be a major band,

a troll is the name I used

for the old men who roosted at

the bar and cackled at each other

like grackles on a telephone wire.

Yes, my 3:00 A.M. mirror

is the teller of savage truths.

But here is another truth.

The eyes are still the eyes

of my youth. The old hopes,

the old longings, the old

defiance is still there.

Yes, I am a troll.

I am a troll and

I shall linger under

bridges, tossing

riddles up at the club-bound

smooth-faced youths

and cackling like a grackle

at the puzzlement in their faces,

as I eat the Billy Goats Gruff.