Undercover

Tongue clicks. Wolf whistles. Hoots.

A Chevy pickup slows. Out the window,

a guy yells, “Hey babe! Lookin’ good!”

Jogs at dawn felt like target shoots.

Today a Buick approaches.

Heart speeds as the car slows and passes.

I forgot the cloak of invisibility

drapes my shoulders now I’m sixty.

Age spots freckle my hands and arms.

Children I teach love to run

their fingers along veins on the backs

of my hands. Topography of long life.

In the bathroom mirror, lines

criss-cross below my eyes and tiny cracks

parade above my lips. This face

no longer matches who I am.

Every cell is different but how far

do I stray from the “who”

I was at ten? twenty? forty?

At dusk, I’m jogging again.

A mustang turns the corner.

Slows. Passes by.

Wrapped in my new cloak,

I’ve eased into this latest splendid someone.

A winging monarch butterfly

in a meadow of milkweed.

Beauty unnoted.