Even though it’s been as good as it gets,
change in my future is as certain as a Category 6 hurricane forecast.
Erotic prowess of yesteryears is stuck in my memory
like a dog attached to a bone.
Plagued by a paroxysm of the signs of growing old—
my nerves tremble like leaves; I have trouble buttoning my shirt,
and see a bald old man in the mirror with rheumy eyes
who is no longer ashamed to toot flatulent tunes for demented old friends.
I batten down the hatches, and wait for a fall into the next raised manhole,
catapulting me into that dark nebulousness.
You never know when it will happen.
You never know.