Expiration Date
I am fire and rhapsody in my private chambers.
Inside out, I am flourishing, animated, and measured.
My heart pumps owning the same conviction at age 15.
My hormonal sexual splendor surely must be the same
dense river I swam at 20.
In the mirror, I see only my ardor dancing,
my uncontainable flourish advancing.
As usual, I’m a firebird at the supermarket.
Trailblazing each aisle, I come to the dairy section.
The milk I buy is always on the lowest shelf of the frig.
Each gallon I inspect expired 3 days ago.
Swinging the frig door wide, I kneel before the milk.
I inspect gallons until I find one that hasn’t expired.
My rigid wooden kneecaps grind against the floor tile.
I extract the bottle, slowly rising to stand
and my glasses slide off.
I somehow snatch them before they fall on the floor.
I turn to place the bottle in my cart.
“Do you need help?”
She’s a face full of glowing concern.
That’s all I see.
“No, I think I’ve got it.
I’m always dropping my glasses.”
This archangel of milk bottles
vanishes.
My wings of fire are only cinders now.
The reason is plain to see.
From outside in, my expiration date has passed.
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