My Face

You have no wrinkles in your face,
my daughter Catherine exclaimed.
There were no faults or fissures.
Nothing life had eroded away.
Events that accumulate
verse after verse,
put musical notes around the eyes,
the spots and blemishes of day to day.
And she’s right.
My face is as interesting as a melon,
being tapped for ripeness.
Is he sweet or sour inside?
Bright or slow?
Is there history there,
or only doggedness?
Why do some people’s faces
stay as they are,
and play peek-a-boo with themselves
in the mirror?