In spring the co-eds blossom,

While I simply age,

Not like a good, mellow wine

Or the patina of a Turkaman,

That would be some consolation,

But more like an abandoned orchard,

Its remaining fruit blighted

With nasty brown dots,

Its tremulous limbs

Barely able to sustain

Their own weight.

So my advice is this:

Young men,

Strike while your iron is hot,

And strike again

As often as you can,

For when it cools

And you’re left with only

A leering imagination,

No amount of ironing

Can make the wrinkles disappear

Regardless of what

The label says.

(originally published in Parable Press)