He carries a picture
of himself
crumbled and worn.
Folded in his wallet,
in one of those
hidden compartments.
A picture
of when he was young.
With a good physic,
built and strong.
A full head of hair.
Every now and then
he’ll pull it out,
to show some
young lads
a glimpse
of what he
use to look like.
“Sure old man!”
They mock him.
But even through
his cataract
he sees himself
young.
And with every
new wrinkle
he will not let go.
deuce coupe 