older
April 1, 1974
my teeth hurt.
my stomach
hasn’t been good
for weeks.
the lines
around my eyes,
admired as wisdom,
are scratch marks,
really,
of a careless time.
and this flesh,
like an calendar,
necessarily turns
into something used.
in the bars
where the old men drink,
they will tell me, still,
i am too young to understand.