I’m almost 34 now
And have forgiven myself for getting older
I walked past and hopped down to the crooked street
Where the short man with baby dark skin sells balloons
And blue telephones hang lonely
And lost my balance
My ankles timid
My mind many places
Not here
There are so many tasks that require tending to, if not completing
He calls me Señor
I think, hope maybe, because I haven’t shaved
Or maybe more because my face seems angry this time of morning
I asked him to take me home
So I could rest, and shower, and sing a little, maybe
In the little hole in the big city cement I pay to sleep at
Where my guitars sit around the radio, like Friday families in Casco Viejo, Panama City, and sometimes I make love
He calls me old man
Because I am his teacher
Someday he will understand
Like what the old men, now younger, told me
I am a child, forever to the new
Forgiving time, our hands tied together, for what we do to each other, sometimes
Like any good lover
Leave a Reply