I woke up this morning with my head on fire,
Thinking, “Is the world changing faster, or is it just me slowing down?”
The shower feels like an extinguisher,
I smolder there, barely aware of the thought I just had,
Like coals, though hot, having forgotten they were once the source of fire.
And then I think it is age.
Yes, it is age, I determine, that has crept into my bones like a thief,
An arsonist, or a mouse, might my house.
He has stolen my Nagels and other youthful splashes of color and novel coordinates,
He has eaten the cheese my wife brought from Paris for me.
He is dousing gas on the floor,
And clinched between his teeth -- a dry looking set of teeth -- a safety match…
He is rendering me sinker gray, and as dull as a knife fashioned from the same, from lead. Heavy, aged, Dorian Gray.
Today is my wife’s birthday.
And I love her still.
Maybe I can steal back what has been stolen:
My youth, my wise Masamune edge,
My Crystal Canyon River of muse that once ran wild and could rupture a dam.
Then I think, fuck it,
Drown thought.
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