Hands on my Hips

Some days when I stand
hands on my nude hips
in the cape of a towel
over the slope of my shoulders
and stare at the blemishes,
deep scars,
and imperfections of time,

this old and leaking ship
of a body says to me
in the honest mirror,

 "Go home."

Knowing that there are only
so many calendars pages to turn
until I have used this one up;

I count the days,
one precious sunrise at a time,
and can't help
but smile
as I give them all
away with so much joy.