Chronophobia (or How You’re No Longer 17. I won’t always be 17)

Father,
Your hair
Is growing
Thin.

You may try,
As much as try,
To comb it all
To the side,

Comb it,
In such a way
That the whole
Of your hairline’s
Covered.

But you cannot hide your age.

For father,
Your hair
Is growing
Thin.

And I understand
You’re scared, well, both
Of us are scared,
And so is Mom.

We are all afraid of time.

(Time is eating
Our time — a metastasis growing
Perhaps too long,
Too early.)

We are all afraid of time.

In the sand dunes
That’ll follow,
Let us hope
Our hope
Grows thick.

We are all
Afraid of time.

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