My earliest recollections of Dad
Includes a vision of thinning side burns,
With no offending foliage forward of his ears.
This was not going to be my problem!
I had a pompadour,
A large not well controlled wave,
That followed mom’s side of the tree.
Alas, today my wave is not simply smaller,
It has succumbed to the cruel plot
That expresses itself when my mirror
Reflects a balding dome that seats upon
An aging face
And smiles at what has vanished.
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