he's getting old now, but still young enough
to buy self-help books he’ll read
only to stay on the treadmill
next to the other suburbanauts.
uses a fortune cookie slip as a bookmark
that just says run.

he's getting old now, but still young enough
to think he "found" someone—
someone as boring as he is,
and they swore to her readymade god
"to have and to hold" each other's
credit card debt and tangled mess of neuroses
‘til death of one kind or another comes.

he’s getting old now, but still young enough
to pretend it’s not happening.
cleans the gutters. trims the lawn.
drags his boat to the river every summer
to drink beer and lie in the heat—
like the sun will burn the years off.

he’s getting old now, but still young enough
to break down in the grocery store,
somewhere between the potato chips
and the popcorn,
crying onto the linoleum,
wiping his nose on his sleeve—
a quiet little implosion
under fluorescent lights.

he’s getting old now, but still young enough
to think he’s missing something.
like a dog still searching for the ball
that was never thrown.
like a flickering motel sign that just says
no vacan, no vacan, no vacan

he’s getting old now, but still young enough
to feel like a frozen dinner in the microwave—
burnt to hell on the outside,
ice-cold in the middle.