It’s just your luck
to have reared a son
drawn to doing wrinkles
with charcoal.

You’ve got to be cock-eyed
to sit still
for such an attentive attempt
on your life.

You purse your mouth
because you suspect
his desire for truth
makes him anxious
to embellish your brow
with an extra wrinkle,
to extend the bridge
of your nose
just a smidgen,
to accentuate
beyond subtlety
the skeletal bulge
of your cheekbone.

And you remain deaf
to his request
that you tuck your scarf
behind your ear
so he can prove
how he can master
its difficult whorl.