How do all these guys
Stick with beards that are like Brillo pads
But maintain no hair on their heads
And shave the nubs that are there
Down to the scalp.

It’s the incongruence that is intriguing,
A ton of facial hair,
Nothing on top.
Mind you, I don’t care,
I’m just curious of the genetics that are at play.

How could life’s blueprint say,
“No hair here, a bramble bush there,”
It’s nonsensical to me,
But before I’m branded a “hairist,” my hair is white as a ghost,
Which is different than most and has many people asking if I dye it.

Of course not, although, I’ve thought about it,
It’s just hair, though,
Me thinks I think too much about the strands,
The locks of some, the threads of others,
The shallowness of vanity.

Planned obsolescence
Bones, lenses, muscles, cells
They all go their way
Like milk left out too long
Rotting and stinking
Unfit for consumption,

So we go for check ups
And get poked, prodded, and bled
To find out that we need
More vegetables and exercise
To stave off the inevitable.

Sometimes I think about these things
When I’m running up a hill
Gassed by the incline
And suffering against gravity
That put me in the slow lane
Of prevention and futility.

So why do I exercise
If all the poking, prodding, and bleeding
Tells me that time will ultimately win?
Because its fun and when the moment comes
I’ll be in decent shape.
Vanity, the true motivator…