We grow to middle age
Watchers of rainstorms
Chasers of skirts
Shall I be the painting
Of a sorrow for you,
A lonely face without a heart?
Will the young girls despise me
Or lie awake nights?
Shall I write my age
On my trousers belt?
Or list for you
My loves in a notebook,
Like Dorian
Fair and changeless without?
While within, I pray,
No hater of winter...
No one the young girls
Would laugh about.