Skin and the Senior Sister
Time has taught me that skin is the last part
of the human body to stop growing.
At twenty, the rest is finished.
At twenty my epidermis fit my form quite nicely,
but now I find I’ve grown an amount
appropriate to upholster myself twice,
with enough left over to cover a sofa.
Oh, my senior sisters,
do your blithe and youthful spirits,
your felicitous feral libidos,
your vitality and verve,
still frolic flamboyantly
within that drooping dermis?
like mine?
Do your hearts and souls
still dance the Hoochie Coochie
in hide that hangs about its frame
like long underwear
six sizes too large?
and do they still dance the Argentine Tango—
but like two mice
trapped in a feed sack?
like mine?
Does passion still pulse in the pit
of your oversized pruning parcel?
like mine?
Ah well…Fret not.
It’s hard to be a sexy old lady anyway.
We that have lived long, lusty and lively,
we who have developed expectations—
seem destined to endure the doom of disappointment
inherent in even imagining perceived prospects
of future fleshy delights;
for alas,
young men have so little practice—
and alas,
old men experience ebbing enthusiasm.
And alas,
distinguishing one skin fold from another
at this point in our lives must surely require
both talent and tenacity—
or perhaps a series of color-coded bookmarks.
Ah Skin;
Skin, skin, skin;
Oh heartless and hastening hyperdermificity.
If we lived long enough would it puddle at our feet?
Would we drag it around like an empty parachute?
When high winds whirl and whip,
would we parasail like flying squirrels,
or just be slapped senseless with
our substantial epidermal surpluses?
How much would there be
by three hundred and three?
It’s a dermatological mystery;
things we currently know nothing about,
but would like to live long enough to find out.
Skin.
May you dance and dream and smile
so long that yours extends a mile.
Susan Christen is a senior Oceanside resident and serial student at MiraCosta College since 2009.