The chins & wattles appear like medals on old uniforms, waiting to be relieved of their duties

The chins & wattles appear like medals on old uniforms, waiting to be relieved of their duties

I grow my wattle at the speed of age.

I really only notice when it's done,

a new sag here, a new quite wrinkled page.

Fact is, it happens on its own & one


day I used to have eyelids, now I got

pouches, with blue jewels that lie & spark.

One day you're shaving the face of some not

you, someone you've never met before. Dark


hairs in my nose, my swelling ears, body

bloats & melts into my latest disguise.

As I lose to gravity, my hobby

is sitting, moaning & playing at wise.


I say this to the young because it's true.

Thank god this will never happen to you.

—Patrick O’Leary

from 100 Sonnets