Mirror Mirror on the Wall.

I can’t help but watch him

that old man

as he staggers across the room

with that unusual gait

punctuated by the odd stumble

I hear his groans and feel his pain

sometimes with a few profane words

he drags himself from the couch or chair

pauses for a moment to regain his balance

I sense his reluctance to bend down

and pick things off the floor

I’m fascinated by those hands

light brown withered looking bony structures

with their pronounced veins

running along the back of them

and up his slim arms

I sense his annoyance

that they’re not as strong as they used to be

I feel his regret

that he can’t do the things he once did with ease

I often think

that to have lived that long

he must have a chest full

of memories and experiences

that should be worth something

but what puzzles me most

is when

I look in the mirror

I see him and not me.