dating at fifty

when she looks
into the mirror,
before going out,
before a date with
a relative stranger
from the internet,
with an e mail or two
exchanged, one
awkward phone call,
a text deciding
time and place.
she winces, dims
the light,
then pauses and
puts her hands on
her hips, and thinks
not bad, not bad
at all at fifty,
but what about next
year and then the
next. how much longer
do i have to
do this. she brushes
her hair one more
time. some lipstick,
some perfume, spins
and turns, looks
at the clock and
thinks about changing
her dress, but then
says, oh what the hell,
i'll probably never
see him again anyway.