It’s been months since I’ve heard from you
and I’m beginning to forget which side on the continent
you decide to dress each morning. Last time I saw you
there was still hair on your head but I suppose
you’re old now and nothing lasts forever.
I think about if I saw you again, how you might look
like you’re suffering from a terrible illness:
skin all rough like filter coffee paper, eyes sunken into the skull
as if trying to look inward. In this image I have
you’re bald, forehead wrinkled, happiness retreating
with the hairline. But what do I know!
You might be like one of those Hollywood old guys
whose faces cheat death, muscles growing
like their property portfolio. I bet you know the sun
all year round and have a swimming pool,
you son of a bitch, a swimming pool that you swim laps in
to keep fit, drowning back cocktails with some girl
half your age who sparkles on your arm. I bet
you only drink drinks with those little umbrellas in.
I bet you have patio furniture that you can’t find
in a catalogue. All I want to tell you is all that’s ever
happened. People used to tell me we look alike.
I might never know if they were lying.