24 and going

When you say thirteen, the first thing that
would probably come to mind
would be bikes. Or more specifically, bike rides
over the small tuft of land near the backyard,
near the road. You practice short
exhibition stunts infront of your friends.
They copy you meticulously, as if
this were a test. Whenever you leap, you
choose a place to land on, a spot that
would break your fall if things go wrong.

Finally, when you grow a little older, you ride
your bike on the street, braving
the new world laid out before you. Notice that
I said when, not if. This is certain, this
swift moving from one time to another; the
passing of certain rituals that you
would have to shed lest everyone leaves
you young and untroubled.

As the years pass, you acquire new exits.
Slowly, you drink in what you think is your life.
You become successful with a few things. You get
someone to love and a pet dog thrown in. You come
home every night tired, willing
yourself to stay awake and not give up. The
bruises you have accepted remain like bright
goldfish do in filthy aquariums. The bruises
you have forgotten stay silent and watchful,
as if they, as well, have been forgiven.

Occasionally, you read new poems, write things
that surprise even you, bake a cake, go on
travels to places you have not been to,
decide on your faith, skin the goose, swing
the bow, walk the walk, stand on the edge;
your life, a mosaic of cliches that you cannot leap out of.
You no longer look at the mirror. It's
been years since you last screamed.


Tomorrow, you wake up and you are
twenty-five. All of a sudden, you are
all flabby arms and slight paunch, hoping
against hope that today would end soon
enough, swiftly. You wish that you had woken
up eighty with left-arm arthritis and
a wheezing cat. Or maybe, not at all.

These are the years, talking like stealthy ghosts. As you lie on
your bed taking time, you discover the finite truth : that there truly is
nowhere to land now, finally, naked as you are.