The Truth About Tigers

In my mind, I have more hair
than I do on my head.
The mirror in the living room whispers a reminder,
showing me someone older
than the faded photograph tucked away in my mind.

Across the room, young Dylan leans from his frame,
guitar slung low, curls tumbling like a reckless thought,
untouched by whatever it is that holds us all in place.

When we saw him in Austin, I watched him fidget
with his hair, patting it back into place—
which, at 83, remains thicker than mine.

But the mirror also catches the TV screen,
swing state results scrolling like distant thunder,
reminding me there are bigger storms brewing

than these quiet, inevitable losses
I’ve just now managed
to nearly forget.