Most days
I squeak by the mirror
Hoping the wisps fall in place
Like the gods of old.
The Fonz, Batman, and Roosevelts
Break in the wind
Yet our egos remain checked
On the empty, open range
I've taken the splendor of youth
And hung him next to the jerseys of old.
Someday my son will remove him, but
Not while the door is held in check.
I hold redemption in the palm.
I beg Sisyphus, Socrates, and
The Wall of May 3rd to Wait
For me,
But the ghosts of Mars pull me into
Isolation.
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