by Kevin Higgins

“At 50, everyone has the face he deserves.”
                                          George Orwell

My hair is the grass
on the local fiveaside pitch
at the end of the worst winter
since nineteen forty seven.

My eyebrows, more
than my personal groomer
the cat can handle right now.

My eyes are light blue jellyfish
floating in increasingly
opaque seawater.

The fuzz up my nose,
and in my ears, that patch
of grass the university groundsman
keeps forgetting to cut.

My ears, two elderly uncles
successfully avoiding each other
at opposite ends of a wedding.

My skin, the wellthumbed book
you picked up in a charity shop,
and never got around to finishing.

In their last exam, my lungs
got fifty three per cent,
so won’t be going to university
unless I give them to medical science.

My belly is one of those small insults
you get away with
because you’ve had Champagne,
but should generally keep
itself to itself.

My penis is a vintage car
one only takes out
every so often.

My knees and ankles are machinery
made almost obsolete
by recent developments.

The crack down the gable wall
has moved and is now within me.