I stand five foot one and three quarters
in bare feet and sport a pronounced
thickening through the midsection that no
sit-ups can touch. I’ve been compared to Frida
Kahlo, Paula Abdul, and Natalie Wood in my day.
At 48, I am still young in some circles. I face
my laptop in the coffee house, surrounded
by youth. They do not see me as one of them.
These days, they come pierced and tattooed,
their grins awash in the glow of cell phones,
but otherwise, they look the same as ever;
one suspiciously resembling my first boyfriend.
Apparently, I am old. I look in the mirror and I’m
astounded by bifocals and thinning, steel gray hair.
Don’t even talk to me about L’Oreal or Nice ‘n Easy,
because there must be some mistake. You see,
I’m still that girl in a halter top, short shorts
and flip flops on a summer night in 1972
at the Dairy Queen on Woodward Avenue
posing with my girlfriends and collecting
the wolf whistles of boys in muscle shirts
sailing by in white Mustangs. My hair then
was thick as a milk shake and dark as night.
Regretfully, I admit, I miss being ogled.