I count the years by the number of frames
perched on foreheads,
by the number of letters
I can see without squinting.

Usually, it’s the elbows that gives up my age.
No matter how many creams
I spread across my throat and elbows,
myopia and elbows betray.

My friend told me about the bastards
on one sunny Southern California day
while I pushed a stroller
and she paid off her son’s college debt.

It’s the elbows where all the skin gathers,
like rings on a tree.

Her glasses hung around her neck
ready at any moment to read something important.
But it seems, as the details fade,
those black-and-white runes evade me,
that the big picture comes finally into focus.