One day you wake up and you’re a rectangle in Easy Spirit shoes.

Grey roots betray you every other week and ads on Facebook

implore you to anti-age every part you can.  Then there’s the horror

of discovering Barry Manilow is not half bad, and you find yourself

singing Oh Mandy, you came, and you saw and you conquered.

Or at Zumba class, Meghan Trainor’s tremolo makes you think

It’s all about the neck, bout the neck, bout the neck. Half the time

you’re walking in circles, trying to figure out which direction

is straight ahead. On Tuesday, you read about an elderly woman

getting mugged and you realize you’re the same age. Oh the indignities,

your car roof adorned with a hideous pink flower, the proliferation

of whatchamacallits in the kitchen drawer, your joints rebelling.

But it’s night skies that leave you breathless, the recurring dream

of moon, the stars burning through their long abandoned lights.