Young Lady
A poem by Dash MacIntyre
Published in
Mar 19
--
The old man’s face was leathery and creased
with decades of living etched and time tagged
and he gave credit to the carbon monoxide
from the grill coating fossil fuel smoke on his gyro meat
and the ouzo liver scars and lung smears
tarred from his morning cigars
and lunch cigars and dinner cigars
and what are you gonna do about it? he asked himself smiling
thinking of his wife who every night used a series of creams
and never drank and never smoked
and still got old alongside him
but of course he never told her that
and always called her young lady.
