Another morning in front of the mirror,

combing cowlick thick blond hair,

looking straight to see Cliché standing behind me,

grotesque, obese, but fashionably poised prolific

in every way.  I have watched my boys face elongate,

widen with wrinkle lines, normal steps towards an age

where death is a part of everything.  Love and life

and roses placed on rain stained gravestones,

which are always gray, says Cliché, we should enjoy

remarkable universal symbolisms, but I am tired of

voices other than my own.  Indifferent or honest,

I’ve become twenty-one and I’m still alive when

I always thought I wouldn’t live past eighteen,

all those dreams of car crashes, early heart-attacks,

and enough legal stimulants to stay above the red

of a bipolar ledger.  Cliché leans closer as I inspect

yellowing teeth.  Maybe I’ll buy a bleaching kit,

but now I need to put on my shoes and go.