The First Salt

The fluorescent hum in the bathroom is a clinical light.

It catches on a wire that doesn't belong,

a bright, unyielding stitch of white

curling away from the temple, stubborn and strong.

I reached for the tweezers on the porcelain ledge,

where they sat by the soap in a cold, metal heap.

I gripped that single strand right at the edge

of the skin where the secrets of aging keep.

It’s a different texture, coarse as a thread

from an old wool coat that’s starting to fray.

A quiet defector from the rest of my head,

telling me the clock has been ticking all day.