Mark the Spot

That mark above my right eye—
I think that certain smart-asses
would call it an age spot—
was not there a year ago…
a year ago
all you would see
if you took the time
to look betwixt my baby blue eyes
and kinky latin hairline was a
creamy band of custard skin
flowing smoothly across
my eternally indifferent forehead.

Now that damned thing
has suddenly appeared out of nowhere,
dark and round,
mocking me by its very presence,
a dreary portent of inevitable decay,
a specter of more indignities
yet to endure.

It’s the same fucking spot
my father has on his wrinkled old brow,
but my old man is centuries old
and I am still in my prime
(whatever the hell that means).

Damned spot,
I would rip you off
with a jack-hammer
if I wasn’t afraid of
damaging my gorgeous mind.

Damned spot,
I would scrape you away
with some really harsh sandpaper,
if I knew you would stay away
for good.

Damned spot,
it’s too soon for me
to embrace the inevitable,
so just leave me the fuck alone,
will you?

Damned spot,
you think that I am fooled
by your apparent affability,
but I know you are
the harbinger of my
ultimate doom.

Damned spot,
you are death
staring me right in the face—
.15 inches in circumference
but lethal as a loaded gun
in a demented child’s hands.

Damned spot,
soon you will invite your
little brown friends to join you
for a raucous parade
across my face,
and those still in their prime
will say,
“Gee, how old he looks;
I remember him when…”

Damned spot,
I know that you will
eventually defeat me,
but for now
I’ve got my eye on you
and I’m not letting you
out of my sight.

Beware!