I used to have perfect eyebrows.

Many people said so,
talked about the flawlessness of the curvature
immaculate pattern of growth
unruliness found it impossible to gain a foothold.

A girl I dated and her best friend
literally tackled me
then held me down on a couch once,
part marveling and part envying
grooming accomplishment they plucked and paid to obtain.

That story seems like it should end more interestingly
or at least with some inappropriate rubbing
of some sort
but that's really the end of it.

In any case, now snowdrifts lazily find their home
above my mocha-scented eyes,
peeking over wire rims
of my windows to the world.
Five white lines
grandmaster flashing through
forest of follicles
inspiring wild growth
outside established borders.

Can't say I'm aging perfectly,
who really is?
I'm not one for ambiance and vanity, though.
This is better than the alternative.

"The Onset Of Winter"
By Hannibal Tabu