You people taking selfies all the live-long day–
I shake my head–don’t know what to say.
I wonder to myself what makes you tick
as you smile and your phone you proudly click.
To me, the concept that you pose
of taking a photo from up really close
is one, on reflection, I don’t understand,
so put down your device and lend me a hand.
The best vantage point, when it comes to me,
is from far away–otherwise you can see,
enlarged pores and scars, both hither and yon,
there’s hardly a square inch I’ve not laid one on.
On the left is a mark where I was hit with a rake,
not swung by another, it was my mistake.
To the right a tennis racket has left its mark,
I nearly volleyed myself right out of the park.
There’s the jagged line where a football helmet cracked
when an on-rushing tackle knocked me flat on my back.
I’d be happy to elaborate with extended discussion
but the blow left me reeling with a dull concussion.
There are pits from chicken pox, and adolescence,
all unwelcome, but they’ve established their presence.
There’s a crater where a skin tag was blasted by a dermatologist
The scar runs so deep I consulted a psychologist.
So if I’m going to join this selfie cohort,
I’m afraid I can’t use your equipment, old sport.
If they made sticks that reached all the way to the moon,
I’d rush out to buy one, much sooner than soon.
I’d borrow some money, if I had anything to hock,
and get one as long as a city block.
Or better: you know what would make me smile?
One that’s as long as a country mile.
Call me self-effacing, I won’t mind it,
but don’t lend me that thing, don’t let me find it.
There’s too much to look at that makes me go “Ick!”
I’ll need a much longer selfie stick.