Each morning I see in the mirror,
a face that sneaks in at night.
I don’t know where she’s from,
but she hogs every mirror in sight.

My make-up is never complete,
I can’t seem to fix my hair;
She jumps right up in front of me,
just when I start to get near.

I am sure I don’t recognize her,
she has wrinkles all over her face.
I think she might be a grandma,
‘cause her hair is all turning gray.

I guess I will somehow have to adjust
to this guest who comes every day.
I can’t seem to change her manners,
and I don’t think she’s going away.

~*~

© Forrest Phelps-Cook