With Age

Catch myself sometimes.

Thinking about

the child I once was.

Must have been.

Catch myself poring over dregs; 

the remnants of my gawkiness.

Such as the carriage of my body; 

reminding me subtly in

the gentle rotund curve

of my ever-present toddler belly.

The natural “pooch” of all youth.

Except for that,

they never care

to suck their guts in

like I do.

Oh, this body that was once six,

and seven,

and eight,

and zero point nine-nine.

Clock o’ mine

began ticking, soon as I had grown

the correct amount of ventricles.

Those pink and squishy chambers

pumping blood into my baby-bone fingers,

into the capillaries of my one brown eye.

Came into this world squinting, I did.

Shed my skin now

more times than I could ever hope to count;

but miraculously, always had

the same number of ribs.

This time around

mostly been called by two names.

Mine and yours.

Like to assign/ume don’t you?

Think you know me.

Do you?

“YOU” everyone collective.

Handing me a sticky label,

asking me to paste it

to my chest, I feel the need to hide.

Spelling out “HI, MY NAME IS . . . “

but oh, ah precious you.

I know well enough by now who I am.

Who I’ve become.

Might’ve come out squinting yeah,

but you see?

It just so happens that

the other eye is open now.



This poem is about: 


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