Self-Portrait at Thirty-Nine -- Ted Kooser

(Poem #79)Self-Portrait at Thirty-Nine A barber is cutting the hair; his fingers, perfumed by a rainbow of bottled oils, blanket the head with soft, pink clouds. Through these, the green eyes, from their craters, peer. There's a grin lost somewhere in the folds of the face, with a fence of old teeth, broken and leaning, through which asides to the barber pounce catlike onto the air. This is a face which shows its age, has all of the coin it started with, with the look of having been counted too often. Oh, but I love my face! It is that hound of bronze who faithfully stands by the door to hold it open wide— on light, on water, on leafy streets where women pass it with a smile. Good dog, old face; good dog, good dog. -- Ted Kooser