Almanac of a Man

When I was five, I was supreme ruler of a boundless realm. Hopes were high, supervision constant. Animals could speak, kisses could heal. When I was fifteen, I was third in command of a band less than four. Hopes were higher, Supervision rare. Girls could speak, kisses could fly. When I was twenty-five, anarchy burned bright waving its tricolour. Hopes were a drag, supervision avoided. Speaking in tongues, They kissed as well. When I was thirty-five, I was doing time, received no letters. Hope was a dream, supervision everywhere. Little spoke and Little kissed, either. Today I was sipping a beer in a high-back chair pushing out words. Hope turned the pages, and played with my hair. We spoke between paragraphs, and kissed form goodbye.