Autobiography of a face.

The mirror is a time machine,

each tiny wrinkle sending you back

over all the places you’ve ever been,

the reflection of your whole life’s track.

 

The tiny scar invisible to most

from the lesson learned that awful night

by the stupid kid, now memory’s ghost

needing to be taught how to not fight.

 

The nose, after five years in the ring,

even though they were just teenage years,

flattened somewhat by persistent punching.

‘Blood and snots’ memories bring tears.

 

Thirty Dublin winters on two wheels,

protective visor barely down.

I know how sandblasted pollution feels

from driving motorbikes in this town.

 

Orthodontal overhang and whistly breadth.

I should have been warned before the braces,

But all in all I don’t regret.

Mine is not the worst of faces.

 

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