Coming and going

There is no end to the mirror’s betrayal,
Vile shock: to find, once more,
That my hair has gone, when
I can feel it still, flowing out behind me,
As I sit astride a Honda 90, to me as wild as any Harley,
Screaming down the bypass, past the pale blue Anglias and Scammell cabs,
Fair and free of any any helmet,
Shouting to all the world: your world is not mine,
Or shaking it to the triumph of screeching guitars and pounding bass,
Proclaiming: the body, the feelings, the Wild!

Eventually, I calm down and there is this old man.
He is not my father, who used to appear a score of years ago,
Not my grandfather, who refuses to show up,
Not my son, who is probably seeing me.
More like my grandson.

This sense of starting somewhere,
Not quite sure if it was where you intended,
Curious but cautious,
Not quite sure if you are
Coming or going.

What is this attraction between the very young and the old?
I have heard it say that spirit loves them both,
For both are closer than the busy adult to spirit.
It’s just that one is coming from
And the other’s going to.