I look tired
My face is an old cardboard box
Of discarded saucepans and pots
Destined for the garage, charity shop or loft.
In the mirror
My eyes are red raw
With the dregs of the night before
Empty wine glasses knocked over on the floor.
I am made
Of odds and ends
Of things I can not trade
Or bring myself to throw away.
Some of me
Is missing forever
This I know. When, where?
I can’t remember. Does it matter?
Can I keep safe
What is left of me? Protect
It unscathed from this day to the next?
Or is that too much to expect?