Each morning I see in the mirror,
a face that sneaks in at night.
I donít know where sheís from,
but she hogs every mirror in sight.

My make-up is never complete,
I canít seem to fix my hair;
She jumps right up in front of me,
just when I start to get near.

I am sure I donít recognize her,
she has wrinkles all over her face.
I think she might be a grandma,
Ďcause her hair is all turning gray.

I guess I will somehow have to adjust
to this guest who comes every day.
I canít seem to change her manners,
and I donít think sheís going away.


© Forrest Phelps-Cook


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