152. Mr. Turtle

In my ignorant
youth,
swirling,
beaming –
catch its eye:

almost
shallow,
modern, and
unassuming,
I pause,
frightened by its
shrunken, wretched
face.

Pity, disgust
contort my
face,
I am no longer
smiling, unless
a trace still lingers,
body a step
behind
            -

Glasses,
hat and scarf
shades of
beige and
fudgy
grey

skin wrinkled,
eyes scrutinize,
wary, weary, and
beady:
shocked, I am
entering the washroom,
and – it –
the
elevator.

Familiarity dawns –
English? Philosophy?
He once taught me
Philosophy,
nearly died halfway
through the
course
because of
medication issues;
has a strange attraction
to Nietzsche
and Beethoven –

Half-disgusted with
myself, to be
repulsed by change
and old age and
academic
exhaustion –

I feel ugly,
sad, though, I
admit –
he was never all
that
good-looking:

It was that moment’s
gaze, of
fear and
confusion and –
bewilderment –

at my…
youth?
my warmth?
my candor? –

that gets me,
as if my joy and
energy
are
an insult,
a flaunt,
a – taunt –

Sorry, but I will not
apologize, (I
think) –
but I feel
guilty and afraid.

Please God,
let me never
become so
cynical and
insecure;
Botox takes away
the wrinkles,
but it
cannot erase
the
age.