imagine running the first half of a marathon in proper running gear
then imagine putting on sorels and a snowmobile suit to run the second half
the desire to outrun the wind remains but the wind could dog paddle and still beat you
i think our minds should age with our bodies, but i've found one has little concern for the other
you pop the cork on the '47 Chablis and you don't see bubbles spilling out like children at recess,
shouting wee! and sliding down the stream into an orgy of chaos.
no, as the dust sighs relief, the bubbles escape gingerly, curtsy at the entrance, and demur properly.
I suppose so should we, in our pink fuzzy slippers and horrible bathrobes, as we scratch our ass
and send the cat shrieking with our best imitation of the walking dead.
but i'm finding we don't, and i think it's a damn shame for us to wake up and find ourselves
prisoners in a rusty, broken old frigidair buried in the weeds.
why weren't we told?
why did those before us pretend they were old if they really weren't?
surely i would've treated them differently
sure, my ears are growing into lazy eagle wings, though not as dramatically as Ringo Starr's
and my nose is becoming a rutabaga from Mrs. Johnson's garden
but inside, in my heart, in my mind, and in my spirit
i still play in your sandbox, my young confused friend
i still, snap my fingers, slide down the hall in my fruit of the looms
and my dick still swings from the jungle trees
though not as high up as it once did and it needs an afternoon nap
and i still get excited over root beer floats
and christmas
and i still giggle at hangovers that hurt
though they're harder to cure with just instant replay
and i know your mother, young dancer
and your father, star pitcher
and uncle ned and your naughty aunt kate
and let me tell you, they're not who you think they are
and shame on them for not telling you so
so yes, you of playful youth, pity the broken frigidaire with rusty hinges
but know the heart plays elsewhere
skipping rope over dreams no different than your own
and let me tell you young fella, who surely will follow my trail
it's all a sham and i'm here to cure the lie
your life will not end at thirty or even forty
at fifty you will not grow an obsessive love for bingo
at sixty you will not long for rocking chairs
at seventy your heart will still beat as twenty
and your mind will be a willing accomplice
looping never ending remembrance
in hopes of spurring a desire that never grows old
and to this cause,
we should never surrender
and certainly
not be ashamed
