Tit for tat

There is a soft precision in solitude,
a convenient absence in gratitude,
an accusing finger
in everything that remains unchanged,
a conversation every now and then,
an evolving silence at the side of my tongue,
the forbidden tune
of a song that’s long gone.

There is a slow recognition in light,
an indulgent self-portrait
that screams tit for tat
with a sickening look, a dull pat on the back,
sit here, do that, stay fit or get fat.
Come on… don’t get sad,
it’s ok if your breasts start to sag…
if there’s a wrinkle here and there…
if you’re defined by grey hair…
nobody expects that much anyway.