By Michael Farry

Each thin line of fresh blood on my forehead
is an insignia of age
I claim,

my genetic baldness, ambushed and bled
stanched by paper scrap or band aid
no shame.

When the mischievous imp scrawls graffiti
leaves his conspicuous message
I blame

a careless car boot lid, something sneaky
suspended in the shed, a stray
window frame

or missed step at the back door. Such scrapes
and scratches mark my decay
but I proclaim

my resilience, healthy genes, escapes,
how quickly grazes fade away.
All the same

in spite of outward pride and careless laugh
I fear the expert plaster,
trade name,

on this or any bald head, the autograph
of impending disaster
the old dame

closing in. We elderly males all dread
with awkward laughter
her endgame.