I was checking the angle of a molar in the glass

I was checking the angle of a molar in the glass

when I saw it—a wire of tinsel, bright and thin.

It’s a silver trespasser that finally came to pass,

a needle of winter poking through the skin.

It doesn't want to lie down with the rest,

it stands up straight, a stiff and wire-like ghost.

It’s a quiet sort of riot, a lonely little test

of who is really running this aging, tired host.

I reached for the tweezers but stopped at the edge,

thinking of how much it cost to grow that gray.

It’s a flag planted firmly on a high and rocky ledge,

and I think I’ll let it have its miserable way.