I had the arrogance of takes no pills.
I had all the arrogances. The arrogance
of waiting for better. Of refusing
to explain. Of no gray in my beard
after forty and none on my chest,
which I flaunted on various apps.
I do not mention the arrogance of
regular dentistry and a reliable car.
But I had those, too. I never had that
of height or I-can-beat-you-up, useful
both for erotic and commercial
applications, but I still found ways
to get along, mostly by staying in corners
and wearing boots. Death’s arrogance
flummoxed me, its supercilious refusal
of even the most supplicant address.
My mother, for example, when my father
drives up to her grave, conveniently
located at the end of a row. Does
the nearby tree explain her hauteur?
Not every plot has one. In winter,
he parks beneath it, engine on, heat
going, staying as long as he can take it.
My arrogance on the phone as he
tells me this manifests in platitudes.
I won’t get started on the arrogance
of platitudes. Enough to say that I
was full of it—like stones in my pocket,
weighing me into a lake. But other
arrogances buoyed me. Especially
looks-good-for-his-age, which,
in my arrogance, I took as an insult. 
Also hope-as-expectation, and saying
hell no to the obvious. But pills every
morning should have been my first clue.
And increasing blotchiness of face.
And that rafter of men not texting back.
One by one, the departing arrogances:
little ballerinas twirling offstage, each
in her puffed-out skirt. The arrogance
of consciousness may well be last to go,
the final ballerina, pirouetting away.
And look, her slipper’s come loose!