Tan Lines

One day I looked into the mirror,
and shocked, what did appear
but fine tipped tan lines
running ’round my skin and spine,
in and out of folds and creases,
even in the flaps beyond sun’s reaches.
Brown lines invading pasty confines,
making darker outlines
on a pale and palid convas.

Back in my younger day
when surfer style was on display,
and bronze boys hit the beach,
no way I could bridge the breach
and do the very same,
for I had always burnt in sunshine’s searing flame.
Long before it was good health,
I evolved my style and would-be stealth:
wide brimmed hat,
long sleeved shirt, umbrella where I sat.
At the tender age of twenty-five,
I had applied, sunscreen north of sixty-five
while others baked to golden brown.

But on one recent summer day
as I was set to hit the hay,
those dreaded lines appeared,
and like an angry steed, had reared
their ugly heads and tarnished
my paleness and my pride.
Now I was one of them,
no longer a pale-faced gem,
having lost my privilege and identity
and fretfully,
lost in a sea of tanned skinned faces.

What would become of my faint and faded ilk
whose complexion was as white as milk?
For as I witnessed the changing palette of humanity,
I thought it time to embrace some sanity
and hug my neighbours as myself.
Hello sun.

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