Where are your vanities now
Where is the makeup, the hairspray, the nail varnish
Where is the tie, the suit, the briefcase stuffed with papers
Why do you sleep past noon
And stay up past midnight
Why do you drink every day
And turn away from the mirror
Why does the car sit unused
And the holiday brochures unread
Why are you wearied by the sight of your wife
Why do you long for the day your husband returns to work
Why do your children hide in their rooms
Talking only to their friends
Refusing to meet or mingle
With those that birthed them
Who walks past you now
Keeping his distance
Head bowed, eyes averted
A glance: guilty or accusing
When your home seems a prison
Your existence a question
Your enemy invisible
Your future uncertain
Why do the birds sing their evensong louder
Why does the sky seem brighter
The air clearer
The moon larger
How is the land
So fecund
Thriving, as though
Someone loosened the chokehold
Why does distance suddenly seem to expand
And your world shrink
Why does a cough or a sneeze seem scarier
Than the thought of growing old
Can the hollow men and women of our age
Change
Will they learn
Or
Is it all
A wasted effort
Nature’s last attempt
To show, to teach, to amend?
