He stares at his comb
One, two, five, ten, twelve…
Strands of virility cling harmlessly to plastic
He’s thin in the wrong place
A look in the full-length mirror reveals all
Youth has turned its back as time looks toward an end
The clock on his desk ticks like a middle-aged heart
Behold the man
Built for greatness; grasping at survival
He thinks he needs a stiff drink
Perhaps he needs something else.
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