So this is what looking old is,
steam on the glass wiping won’t clear,
blurs where frail ferns gleam,
reflected in the silver patch beads blear
above a swath through shaving cream
my grandfather’s orbit, my ear.
Poetry by George Lang
So this is what looking old is,
steam on the glass wiping won’t clear,
blurs where frail ferns gleam,
reflected in the silver patch beads blear
above a swath through shaving cream
my grandfather’s orbit, my ear.