there was a time long ago

when some said

that my son “looks like me”.

nobody says than anymore.

my son is young enough

to move the entirety of his

physical life from location to location

and his skin is wrinkle-free.

I look like a pasty raisin.

a pasty raisin Sunkist

tossed from the box like the weakest

nestling from the home weave.

I’m convinced that kids are deciding

whether or not to throw stones at me

as I walk to the 24 hr. convenience store to buy eggs

and a gentle, yet reasonably fast-acting laxative.

I miss the jingling bells

hanging atop the doors of the old, neighborhood stores.

they carried a pleasant tune of welcome.

now the guy behind the counter seems

uninterested in everything beyond his nose.

he looks at me like I’m from Mars.

maybe he thinks I’m up to something.

makes sense. each morning mirror

thinks I'm up to something. but

what I’m up to in the immediate 

is clearly defined in my brain. a dozen eggs

and a gentle, yet reasonably fast-acting laxative.