Self-Portrait at 41

Fat and tall, fat more than tall,
Elephantine in some ways,
How I hear the conscience louder than ever,
And the needs diminishing slowly. 
Like how my wife is not the vixen in bed anymore,
Only a sandbag on days, while a sand castle on others,
I’m like a book with discolored yellow pages,
Perhaps even a little termite dust from the book shelves,
What the jaws of time nibble away.
And still I write, the thirst to be poetic,
Culling camel after camel for the hump,
Even on days of writers block.
And I will slowly descend the slope,
Eponyms cluttering me, Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s
And so forth. I’m that cloud covered sky,
The sun lesser than before, hiding away,
Knowing age is a sentence, when the green grass
And the green mile are bittersweet truths,
And I’m the grasshopper, hopping and hoping,
Searching for the morning dew,
To get out of bed each morning,
Imbued with an insatiable lust for life.

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