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A Poem: The Leg Bone 

I keep pulling out my grays
Fighting the finish line
Pretending that the end never gets closer
I am the great evader
With my dark brunette hair
Still purposed with color
Deliciously young and defiant
I convince myself of this
Until the years gone
Start to exceed the ones to come
I begin hoarding moments
Stashing them from no one but myself
Until I’m comfortable with enough
Can look at the supply and feel safe in surplus
Not realizing they are expiring and unspent
Rotting in cupboards of chipped paint
I sit at a table for one on a one-way street
Distracted by a moment with my need to slow it down
To not participate, but rather wait until
The chance has passed and again I sit
Alone at home in a mirror missioned
On a safari of fur … poaching grey hairs
And putting on lotions and tinctures
With tiled background I convince myself
The end is a reflection I can choose to ignore.

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