—I’M JUST SITTIN' AROUND HERE TRYING TO WRITE THIS BOOK

 

When & How & Now

 

This morning I regarded the mirror

took a crude examination

some shower beads still pearled on my shoulders 

head hair damp and fine, scraggly like weed grass

me naked as a pasta noodle and almost as thin 

as if smoke could have bones and dermis 

chest hairless now, dull as a crushed picnic plate

me somewhat astonished, wondering when and

how that had happened, how it all did, this sudden shift of age 

crosshatched creases everywhere 

each mole staring at me like potato eyes 

as if they know some un-sharable secret  

my penis doing nothing, just nodding and looking listless,

stomach breaching a rim, bloated again

the folly hitting me, then slowly, 

a swell of gratitude knocking me over next

which made me laugh like a drunk jackal, the ruckus 

waking up my dead dog, my host, neighbors, the pope 

as I told myself or that mirror man, “You’re a lucky bastard,”

my cackling drowned out by a fleet of sirens

screaming up the street, flashing, flailing, 

desperately wanting something from me