The years pile on and

I break,

slowly.

The tragedy of the leaves,

or of my youth,

leaving.

The bones are still good,

but I need a full reno,

no lipstick pig makeover.

I’m weaker –

I break easy,

and into soft

parts –

I’m stupid and

rotten and

failing.

The once-sharp mind,

now an old worn-down baseball bat

of smoothed, bleached wood.

I’m too old for this shit

and too young to be feeling

this

dead.