or move forward. I'm growing
older, shedding like the old oak trees
in winter. I'm a piece of cinder
after the fire, a lumpy grey

coal that's tired. I've worked hard
for my fifteen minutes of fame. I've
watched and waited. But it never
came. I threw myself into it,

painting it black and red. I rose before
the sun and clung to it in bed. I fed
it every day and walked it like
a dog. I slogged away my after

noons.  I pruned and watered and
stood over it. I cannot take back
the years or divide them in halves.
If so, what do I have?