A friend has given me a tin of wax to spike my hair.
The texture puckers between thumb and forefinger
as I study my close-up in the mirror.
A dip to the brow, a sag to the jaw,
eyes less intense than thirty years ago,
an age spot above my cheekbone announces itself.
My core queases.
A familiar feeling trickles down
the back of my throat,
fills my chest,
and I understand no one of us
to make a good-enough self.
Perhaps I’ll return the unused tin with thanks.
Then I’ll look at myself in the mirror
and be welcomed
to a homecoming.