Sunday, May 26, 2002

The Mirror
by
John T. West Jr.

The other day, I happened by chance,
As I passed a mirror, to give it a glance.
And I wondered who that old man could be,
Who, with his mouth wide open, was looking at me.
His bald head was sprinkled with a little gray fuzz,
And he wasn't at all handsome (like I always was).
He looked like a sack of MIS-mated parts,
Put together without the aid of instructions or charts.
And while I know that my shoulders don't slump,
This person's were misshapen in one ugly lump.
Now, if that was my image, I only can say,
They don't make mirrors like they did in my day.