When Uncle Wally looks in the mirror
what he sees are cheeks and jowls.
His face is entirely square, temples silver.
Wherever he goes he carries this face,
day after day.
His slacks curve out like a belted tub,
his shirt so tight you see his nipples.
But the thing is, he knows all this.
He carries himself with him wherever he goes.
Every night what lies on his pillow
is that same silver head, that same square face.
His own face.