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.
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