He's still young--; thirty, but looks younger-- <br />or does he?... In the eyes and cheeks, tonight, <br />turning in the mirror, he saw his mother,-- <br />puffy; angry; bewildered... Many nights, <br />now, when he stares there, he gets angry:-- <br />something unfulfilled there, something dead <br />to what he once thought he surely could be-- <br />Now, just the glamour of habits... <br /> Once, instead, <br />he thought insight would remake him, he'd reach <br />--what? The thrill, the exhilaration <br />unravelling disaster, that seemed to teach <br />necessary knowledge... became just jargon. <br /> <br />Sick of being decent, he craves another <br />crash. What reaches him except disaster?<br /><br />Frank Bidart<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/self-portrait-1969/
