Old Friends
My dentist says my teeth are all adrift
like schoolboys on a summer afternoon
eternal in its golden, sunlit gift
for them to play the hero or buffoon;
he says that my incisors, one day soon
upon the ocean of my jaw must stray,
perforce to let soup dribble from my spoon
while those same children laugh at my dismay.
Let molars and bicuspids go their way
and make my mouth a sign of age a-creep,
our friendship cares not how the shadows play,
or worries at our changes ere we sleep.
So touch me now and learn of me anew,
no alteration lies twixt me and you.
Perfection
I wonder if it’s possible to be
embodied as perfection in a man
constructed to a well-proportioned plan
once drafted in the Greek academy
and born to illustrate elusive φ
as Leonardo drew in ink on tan
ideal dimensions of immortal span
for Michelangelo’s reality.
But I’m constructed with unnumbered flaws;
no golden ratio will I measure out
(my figure would give Archimedes pause
considering my curvature’s so stout);
I wish I’d garnered David’s loud applause
and not misshapen decades full of doubt.
©copyright, Parker Owens, November 2022.
All of Parker’s work can be found at GayAuthors.org
A Pencil Is Best 