I saw my knuckles in sunlight.

Seems I’m doing alright,
in that their crocodilian terrain
showed survival

I recall a science class
where they asked us to pinch skin
on the back of our hand
to see how quickly it returned

now, it appears
I’m learned

#age #skin #morphology #longevity #content #knuckles

Catch it if you can
this ticking of seconds borrowed
from another belonging

They are slighter than most,
slipping through fingers
like pinched grape pips

But the rushed pulp
should someday make
good wine

Have a care,
they said
if the wind changes you’ll stay like that

and I think I missed the breeze
that fixed me in place
in among the hurricane days,

but the aches and pains
don’t shift no more,
just there
to be muted
by whatever suits
and ties

Intent on the final bell ring
declaring spring for reals
as we feel every inch
a bag of hammered turds

You will have heard the crack
in every colleague’s voice this term,
felt the glut of panics
that the journey home may be in a hearse

Still, it could be worse,
and when the rear view
shows a dwindling, darkening school,
we’ll spend two weeks pondering how,
exactly

Not lost as much as misplaced,
gone from where you should be
in bosoms of families
and conspiracies of friends
still adding your narrative arc,
your author’s hand

It is for us to ape your style,
continue your quirks and syntax
so the story, like these spring bouquets
will bloom well

Bookends with fatty livers and bad backs
squinting at instructions
for another **** fool distraction
and the laughing, thankfully

On the walk, bees, butterflies,
catkin reminders of time and loops
and irregular pooping
as constants

Thankfully, laughing
requires just enough muscles
from those that still work,
but I’ll feel it tomorrow

The absolute ******* grind of it,
each inch upholstered rough,
sandpaper cushions and *******,
this is school my loves:
best days of your life,
except the frequent crying
and wishing for an end,

but then
the dazzle blather
of someone excited by your subject,
your patient, pent up words
heard
and your bitten cynicism scuffs enough
to see your old electric truths beneath