Juxtapose
I must be getting old,
beginning to hate the cold,
perhaps instinctively,subconsciously knowing
cold's connection to death,
I can hardly catch my breath,
smoking like a fiend
since I was fifteen,
knuckle enlarged and red,
the pounding in my head,
just wanting to take to my bed
but worried I might wake up dead,
sometimes I wake up confused, bemused
not knowing where I am
not recognizing the room
and feeling a sudden sense of doom
remembering the womb
and fearing the tomb...
one time I woke up and didn't
even know who I was:
complete amnesia for a few moments
some kind of mental seizure
my mind was blank as I wildly eyed the room
and tried and tried
to remember who-what-where,
a brief but horrific loss of my humanity,
a glimpse of pure insanity
heart gripping panic I won't soon forget
and yet...and yet
in my mind I am still young
while I try to reconcile the contrast between
that youth in my mind
with the passing of time
as I slowly slip my tongue
over the smooth gums
where once there were teeth
and the few I have left give me
nothing but grief
rotten and black
breaking in half
I spit out pieces that look like
they came from King Tut,
I keep my mouth shut
afraid to speak or smile
all the while
knowing the taste of death,
it's on my breath,
I grasp the depression that comes with age
and the impotence of elderly rage
and once again I see that child I once was,
blonde and tanned and running wild,
building castles on the beach,
skin hot and brown and hair sun-bleached,
my father carries me into the water,
gray haired man and tow-head daughter,
the surf is wild, churning 'round his legs
but his stride is true and brave
he lifts me me high above the waves
I hug his neck, he's in his prime
and now I wish I could turn back time
and stay there now and evermore
that endless summer at the shore
when I was five, or maybe four.
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