what is it to be 40
twice the man, you were at twenty?
four times the man, you were at ten?
is it being wiser
and having your means meet the end?
finances sured up?
with no need, for to be the miser
a divorce or some
perhaps a strong marriage
polyamorous loves
to your heart's desire
addictions? vices? troubles stifling?
death breathing down your neck
to the thumping of your heartbeat
beads of sweat, gather
and run off your chest
like your shoes on the concrete
you are dying
even while you're living
and you know one day
it'll be your last
cause we only get so long
and time goes fast
a baby is born
the next afternoon
an old man is buried
tomorrow could never come
would you ever know it?

When my family and I moved into this house in 1977, Dad was our patriarch.
For four decades I have lived in a subdivision that is called Crosby Park.
Today I've lived in this subdivision for forty years.
I was only five years old when I moved here.
When a person lives at a place for that many years, it fits like a glove.
This is where I'll live for the rest of my life and it's a place that I love.
I'll tell you why my place means more to me than it did just ten years ago.
It's because this place is now mine and there's no place like home.

I am watching you
In my peripheral vision
And counting all the times you look at me (when you think I don't see)
By the end of the night it's at 43
That sounds pretty lucky to me

I pack the bags beneath my eyelids, off to sleep.

© Matthew Harlovic

And the farm endured
seven fields to forty acres
the days of my father
saw grass and crops rotate
his toiling obsession now spent
gave way to a bigger scale

the old house storeyed
by one and a half
the bedroom where I slept
in the shadow of an older brother

the roof of grey slate
the peak of my world
reached my childhood sky

the overgrown garden
the consequence of labours elsewhere
the sycamore tree
my view of a world outside

And the farm endured
seven fields to forty acres
the days of my father
saw grass and crops rotate
his toiling obsession now spent
gave way to a bigger scale

the old house storeyed
by one and a half
the bedroom where I slept
in the shadow of an older brother

the roof of grey slate
the peak of my world
reached my childhood sky

the overgrown garden
the consequence of labours elsewhere
the sycamore tree
my view of a world outside
the patch of monkshood remained
where I trapped bees in a jar
the fuchsia bush with flowers to pick
and **** nectar from within

the old dirt track road
the start of a jouney far beyond
the realm of a farm
and the dreams of a boy