An anxious energy shoots through my veins,

muscles, tendons, ligaments pulse; lightning,

firing through narrow tunnels filled with water,

propelling these tired, young bones into action.

 

Fists beat on concrete,

walls,

a scratch; no damage of note,

a chip,

of paint,

falls down,

smashing on the asphalt,

a thousand tiny pieces of,

neon orange,

from a picture of a Phoenix,

flames roaring, consuming;

you can't stop it.

 

Occasionally,

a new paint job,

is necessary,

and I live on,

shedding old, concrete-skin,

eroded by sunlight and wind,

even some of your rain,

do you remember the weathering affect,

of all your difficulty and indecision?

 

I don't;

I shed that memory,

with the old paint-job.