He orders the usual:
Cranberry muffin, tea - orange pekoe.
I feel the poet's eyes on me as
I leave him to his morning scribbles.
He has noticed the crow's feet recently
Discovered framing the eyes that were once
Ocean blue and now nearly grey, my hair
Yet blonde with some help from Domingo.
When dawn cast its first light on me
There was no anticipating this day, for
Today I turn forty-five.
I am fighting time, a battle never won.
Will I no longer be worthy of your ink,
Dear Ezra? Will the muffins I bring you
Taste a little less sweet, the berries
Inside not quite ripe, the tea weak?