Age in general

At some point
You feel your age
No matter
How many people
Tell you
You don’t look it.
Its nice of them to say
But every day
You feel a bit older
And not on the scale
You did
When you were younger.
30 to 31 is a breeze.
34 to 35, a walk in the park.
39 to 40 is a little different.
Its one decade
To another.
Of course you didn’t
Think you’d see this many
Years.
And now you’re afraid
Of how many
You have left.
44 to 45?
49 to 50?
They seem like
Gargantuan jumps.
40 becomes easier.
Denial sets in.
You do all the things
You did before,
Albeit slower.
You think all the things
You thought before,
But maybe worry more.
If you could just forget
You are 40
You could be any age
You want.

My age

The only time
I feel my age
Is when I think
Of someone else
My age
Doing what
I’m doing.

Tunnels

I
have
looked
down
many
tunnels
in
my
life.
And
traveled
down
more
than
a
few.
But
I
never
saw
a
light
at
the
end
of
any.

Four corners

I stand here
waiting
across the street
from the courthouse
for my girlfriend,
the prosecutor.
I am bored.
Smoking a cigarette,
I watch the steady flow
of people coming and going.
It’s a cold night in Houston
yet so many
wear so little.
They pull their arms together,
hunch their shoulders,
and soldier on
with their children
in tow.
An older black man
is crossing the street
too slowly
for a huge black truck
and it is only the sound
of the truck's horn
that makes me notice
this man.
At least he is dressed
for the weather.
He wears a long brown
trenchcoat,
white tennis shoes,
black sweatpants
and a black T-shirt.
My eyes are drawn
to the white tennis shoes
as they slowly make their way
along the crosswalk,
past the huge black truck.
When he reaches the corner,
he turns toward the next
and begins his slow journey
again.
I stamp out my cigarette
and watch him reach the end
of another corner
and turn toward the next.
It is quickly apparent
that he is trapped
within these four corners.
I light another cigarette
and watch
as this old black man
moves from corner
to corner
so slowly.
I wonder if he is killing time
or if time
is killing him.
I have stood here
for an hour
watching his circular progress,
when my girlfriend appears.
She stands behind him
at the corner
closest to the courthouse.
When the light changes
and he doesn’t move
fast enough for her,
she jostles him
and waves to me.
He changes direction
and moves toward
a different corner.
My girlfriend,
the prosecutor,
hugs me
and launches into a description
of her day
as we move toward my jeep.
I look back at the four corners
and the old black man.
Somehow I think
his story
would be so much more
interesting
than hers.

The fight

It is our first fight,
but it is a fight.
Home from errands,
the energy in the room
is different
than when I left.
I find you on the couch,
sullen.
I try to sit beside you,
but the couch is cold
and you are colder.
I hate games.
I ask why you are mad.
You say you will tell me
in time
and walk outside.
Damned if I do,
damned if I don’t,
I walk out to the Jeep
and take out the shovel,
saw,
and gloves
I just purchased.
I take them to the backyard,
to your current space,
and lay them in the grass.
I am not here to spite you.
I only want to do the work
I planned to.
I attack the dead plants
in the yard.
You sit in a chair facing away,
drinking.
And eventually retreat
back to the house.
I work for the better part
of an hour
and retire to the chair
you left,
with a beer
and a smoke.
You make your way
to the chair
beside me.
We sit in silence
until you ask,
“Who is Becky?”
I stare at you.
Becky is a friend from work.
I haven’t dated her.
I haven’t slept with her.
How could she have offended you?
You know I don’t read your emails
you say.
I know nothing of the kind.
I leave my browser open to them
every day.
But I saw the subject line
for your email to her.
I wonder again what
problem you could have with that.
But you don’t explain.
You shuck and jive
to another accusation.
There were beers in the fridge,
beers that I know
you don’t drink.
Again, I am puzzled.
You are so cryptic.
I press you for details.
They were Heinekens,
you say.
I almost laugh.
That had to be for Kristin
when we watched Saw VI
at the house.
There’s no one you should worry
less about.
But you do.
When? You ask.
You only told me about Lost
and how she missed that night.
How many women
have you had over
since we started dating?
Fuck, I think.
Do I need to report to you
every person who
crosses my threshold?
That’s bullshit.
None, I say,
not counting Kristin.
I don’t even think of her
as a woman anymore.
Just a friend.
I don’t believe you,
you say.
I only ever asked
two things of you.
Don’t cheat on me
and don’t lie to me.
So saying, you rise
and return to the house.
I sit there with the knowledge
that I have never cheated on you.
I have never lied to you.
Yet you believe I have.
I’m pissed.
I’m pretty sure it’s over.
I return to the house
and stop in the kitchen.
I collect your pipe, your pot,
and the bag I gave you.
I set them down
on the coffee table
in front of you.
You look up
from your pity party
and ask what’s going on.
I’m pretty sure you think
I’ve cheated
and I’ve lied
and I’d like you to leave.
You just look at me,
no expression,
no feeling.
I leave the house
with a beer
and a smoke
and settle back into
my lawn chair.
You come out crying
and apologizing.
You don’t want to go.
You just wanted to tell me
how you felt.
But you didn’t tell me
how you felt.
You only made accusations
without any real explanations.
Still, you try to explain
with a huffy voice
and tears in your eyes.
You don’t really think I cheated.
You don’t really think I lied.
You were just scared.
I understand, I say.
But I don’t.
Maybe we aren’t breaking up now,
but we will.