Juvenilia
I have no juvenilia,
The flights a young man sings,
But always, this arthritis
To cramp my crooked wings.
I didn’t save a single line
Of passion or complaint
From early years—one long repine,
Sans classical restraint.
With no life script, the stage was set
For drunken melodrama,
My days devoted to remorse
And self-inflicted trauma.
But now, the equanimity
That comes with later years
Offsets creeping infirmity,
Draws sympathy from peers.
Yet age is not a wisdom font—
That’s manifestly clear.
Life grants a scrap of what we want—
We scrabble to keep what’s dear.
(2005)
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