No matter how trim I appear to be

No matter how trim I appear to be

How far I walk

Or even how many times I hear

“You don’t look your age.”

The skin, on my calves,

When the muscle is flexing

Has a texture

Not unlike crepe paper.

It should never be seen.

But then again

I am a good candidate for body dysmorphia

Twelve kilometres every day,

More exercise

Than I could throw a drumstick at,

The same weight now

As thirty years ago,

Although for me

Nothing is in quite the right place

Or as firm as it should be,

Especially if I don’t pull it in.

Mirrored wardrobe doors

Are hard to avoid

But I try.

Tell me what is so wrong

About teeth being cleaned in the dark

Closing my eyes

When I wash my face,

Weighing myself every day,

Avoiding all reflections

Like the plague.

I use a moisturiser now

To firm and lift

My dad would turn in his grave.

Cologne was the first betrayal

Of the old-style,

Smell as sweet as you are

Stance of the

“I have a bath once a week

Whether I need one or not.”

Brigade.

The macho,

“Who wears cologne

Before five-o-clock?”

Bully boys,

Sporting champagne lifestyles

And beer-stained bellies.

The steroidal bodybuilders

With stretched skin

And perma-grins.

None of them are for me

Neither is Botox

But if by some miracle

My skin was as smooth

As a baby’s bottom

I would wear a swimsuit

In public again.