This is the moment
I finally feel my age.
47 or 48
I’m not sure which
because I can’t remember.

Check my phone for the
calculator– because I’m
too tired to think of
carrying the one
or anything else.

I feel my age in
trying to find the
miniscule robot antenna piece
that popped onto the floor–
dropping to my knees I feel my weight.

The manchild who interviewed me
for a job I’m too experienced for
says he can’t reconcile the woman
he sees, with someone who would have
the energy to do everything I’ve done.

My energy comes back. Vividly.
I want to devise ways to destroy his life–
because I am still me. And I can do things.
And he is a punkass chump.
I am too old for this shit. But not for the job.

My age is probably 48.
And I didn’t do what I set out to do.
That might be OK if
what I wanted to do was evil or
direct marketing or anything involving churches.

My feet are wider, fingers thicker
I listen to podcasts and cry
The blinds in the house annoy me
Little white slits everywhere
All the new houses have them.

So now, at this age, I determine
that I am this, not that.
Every day edits away the disastrous.
I feel my age now– this moment
is the reaping of a soul.