Coming of Age at Last

So I wore my sweater inside out.
Doesn’t mean dementia’s here—
clogged pores and uncombed rug.
Doesn’t mean a flabby gaze
while the mind sorts its imagery

to recover practical speech.
I can still spell “Alzheimer”
nd read a map and plot a route
to the nearest lockable ward.
Yes, now that I’m almost eighty

I own up to amateur sketches
that betray a lack of talent,
not wholesale psychic collapse..
Although I confess that sixty years
of writing left me anonymous, 

I’m still able to bear weight.
You’d like to pour me headfirst
into a dusky room where men
bereft of books and magazines
expose useless parts in wonder. 

You’d have the government stash
my living corpse where no one
will ask me why I’m wearing
my old red sweater inside-out
and backwards. Maybe too sleepy 

to properly dress, I heard jays
arguing about my future
and the sound so frightened me
that I forgot myself and flew
out the window to defend myself 

against the arrogance of nature.
When I returned, I discovered
my sweater on wrong, but before
I corrected myself you entered
with a Roman look of triumph,                

having caught a clumsy moment.
I try to blame it on the jays—
but you join in their laughter,
which despite harsh morning light
lilts as high as a child’s balloon.

Bass Fishing in May

Children tumbling into mud,
rolling and laughing, ruining
expensive cotton summer clothes. 

You steer carefully around them
driving as slowly as possible.
The road is almost impassible. 

The ruins of cottages wrecked
by the heavy snows last winter
grimace like teeth in a skull. 

These kids escaped from day care
to roam with fresh new freedom
enraged parents will assure them 

they’ll never enjoy again.
The morning wrinkles apply
to everyone. Stilted pines 

scratch at clouds obscuring
their clarifying view of the sun.
The lake looks too artificial 

to drown even the meekest child.
Such a perfect smoothness explains
nothing but itself, a bass boat 

with two upright fisher-folk
squats motionless in the calm.
You wonder if these boats tip 

in angry winds. They mostly
cruise the shallows where panfish
lurk in their well-stocked larder. 

I haven’t fished in many years
but still feel the line tug when
a huge bass finds itself hooked. 

I released almost everything
I caught. Now a police car
is scooping up the stray children, 

tucking them into the back seat
like a heap of wayward teddy bears.
The potholes, filled with water, 

splatter like squeezed pimples
as we and the police car pass
with a wave of solidarity, 

the disappointed children peering
with misty gaze at the lake
from which honest revenge evolves.

Losing Face

When I scrub with a washcloth
my face peels into the basin,
crumpled like butterfly wings. 

It didn’t hurt but left me bared
to the bone, a Jolly Roger.
You claim I’ve improved myself. 

You say I look more human now.
Lacking the burden of expression
that exposed my feints and follies, 

I wander through the village
greeting friends and dog walkers,
mailman and constable, with fixed 

if slightly impertinent smile.
My teeth have never felt so bared
but people seem to like the effect 

and flash a smile in response.
The dogs especially approve
and roll on the dust with joy. 

I agree that my old face had worn
so thin it was almost useless.
I agree I look better without. 

Still, most accept their faces
with a decent shave or embellished
with makeup from the CVS. 

I can’t go barefaced to the end
so I phone a dermatologist. You drive
me to the clinic but warn me 

that if he restores my old face
without significant improvement
you’ll pack me into a crate 

and ship me to the far side
where my ugly frowns and sneers
will wrinkle without reply.

Author’s Biography

William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Venus, Jupiter (2023).  His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.