The kid is seventeen at best. Dark hair,
with skin like Yellowstone, erupting grease.
His flat, bored unconcern shows in the crease
that brackets smirking lips. If he could care
enough to look my way, I'm sure he'd see
a bald nonentity in khaki slacks,
my age-lined face like something from a wax
museum: an old man, like he'll never be.
Perhaps I ought to warn him--let him know
how years can ambush you, then slip away
like thieves. Maybe he'd find it frightening.
But I'm no mage. I'm fat. Forgetful. Slow.
I tried; I didn't win. But he still may.
I doubt that I could teach him anything.