This single white hair stands

on top of my head.

Short, wiry and crooked,

like a little old lady,

she wags a bony finger skyward.


It’ll be over before you know it, she says:

eat the pie

drink the wine

kiss the man

wear the golden trousers

and dance, child, dance

while you can.


I like her.

She doesn’t give a shit.


Still, I pluck her out and

flush her down the loo, thinking, one day,

one day, old lady,

I hope I’ll be just like you.