One day I was alone, then you came,
and I was alone again.
I guess I wasn’t that good at inventing dreams,
and my hands tend to get sweaty.
When you were still here, I couldn’t decide
whether I was young or old. Now that you are gone,
I shower only so often; I open a book
but don’t always read it—sometimes I just enjoy
the texture of the paper; and I save my voice,
or perhaps I’m simply too embarrassed to talk
to myself. But at least I can finally laugh
about my age dilemma.
When I was young, I wanted to be bold again and again
and write a verse, or better yet, a song.
When I was young, I wanted to hear your giggle
as we switched the dust jackets of Walt Whitman’s books
to pass them off as Jackie Collins’.
When I was young, I wanted to name all the constellations
that illuminate your face so that no one ever again would dare to say
they’re just freckles.
When I was young, I wanted to build a house out of the finger strokes
on the keys of your piano and my typewriter, so we could furnish it
with the gentle brushes of fingertips over lips.
When I was young, I wanted to believe we would never end up
among the Kramers, Hillards, and the like.
So, here I am, turning quinquagenarian soon—no longer young, but not quite old yet either.
I decided to change something in my life, and since great things start small, or so they say,
I changed a detail—my briefs for boxers. I also spotted a tiny hole in the heel of the sock
I wore this morning, and for a brief moment, I weighed the pros and cons of darning it
or throwing it away, which is odd because I never paid much attention to my garment before,
so what difference does it make now that we parted ways?
hidden pilcrow 