like mathematics or certain sports
is something you have a perfect age for
and when it passes, it’s gone.
Reading over old pieces
-pieces I thought would be worthless
compared to what I’d be capable of when I was forty or fifty
because of all the experience I planned to have-
I realize I could never write some
of the lines I wrote then.
It’s almost feels like a broken-bodied record-holder
watching black and white film
of his younger self winning races.
A smile comes to the face
and in the moment of rheumatism’s little creak
wryness and regret, melancholia, lost nostalgia