My former lovers all are gaining weight
or going bald, it seems. Time lurches on,
they fall in step; but I procrastinate,
as usual. Just call me Dorian.
It can't be from clean living or pure thoughts.
I've seen the sun come up uncounted times
with sundry friends and strangers, sans culottes
when possible, after unnatural crimes.
Sometimes I scan my mirrored face for signs
of wear and tear, at least -- it hasn't been
all party, heaven knows. The only lines
so far are when I smile. What does that mean?
Not that I'm in a hurry, for it seems
I've drifted through my life wrapped up in dreams.
----
From sometime in the early Eighties. Since then, of course, I've fallen into step with Time myself.