The bone girls flit into my house, each teen
in flowing gown. Their dresses reveal flesh
and angles, seldom a round curve is seen
aside from youthful, soft and upright breasts.
Accompanied by boys in formal suits and ties
they walk with awkward care in higher heels
than any of my friends would dare to try —
the dancing that they do would make us reel.

Informed to keep a distance I sneak looks,
as these young actors glide across their stage
reciting lines they must have read from books
that told them how to feign an older age.
And now I think that forty three is fine:
no need to act, and old enough for wine.

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