So, here I am—one moment I’m soaking wet
under the sun hidden behind the dark clouds
that just so happened to have decided to sweat cats and dogs all day long,
listening to old men, older than me, who sing
about past loves and how regrets are part of life,
trying to reach the long-forgotten tranquillity
of a bookworm—and the next thing I know, your eyes are wide open
and your girlish face is lit up with impish glee
because of something I said.
There’s no way this is the fever from that old sonnet,
because like chickenpox or measles, once we had it,
we were supposed to gain lifelong immunity—or so I thought—and yet,
all the symptoms suggest otherwise, which makes me wonder
if there is any point in agonising over the physician
leaving me to my own devices if nothing ever changes
regardless of whether I follow his prescriptions or not.
After all, I’m about to be called an old man myself,
old enough to sing my own songs.
hidden pilcrow 