The Hinge

The mirror in the gym is a cruel, bright light.

I saw my arm from the back—a strange view.

The skin at the hinge was a dusty, dull white,

bunched up like a sleeve that was never quite new.

I pinched it. It stayed. A gray, dry peak,

an elephant-crackle I hadn't yet seen.

It’s funny—no, wait—it’s more like a leak

in the bucket of being young and clean.

I’m a hinge that’s been swinging for thirty-odd years.

The metal is tired. The casing is thin.

I stood there with all of these quiet, new fears

just folding and unfolding my own baggy skin.