I behold the glory of youth;
the hipbones protruding
above the folded-down waistband
of pink velour shorts.

I am ancient, doric columns
crumbling, no longer fit
to hold a roof up to the sky.

You couldn't tell by looking at me.
My skin is still as elastic
as any blonde coed's.
My breasts are still as high.

When I was thirteen,
eighteen was a great mystery,
a lost continent sliding beneath
the waves, never to be seen.

Now I'm sitting on the edge of twenty-three,
an age only divisible by itself and one.
I've put down the knives and now what?
I've put them down but the universe
has yet to give an answer for itself.

03/29/2005

Posted on 03/30/2005
Copyright © 2024 Aaron Blair