a poem

He lives on a ragged edge, the very ledge of nervous arousal
his duties seemingly straightforward
domestic and spousal,
his name is something he wears, a tag stuck on his crumpled shirt
the first day of school, surrounded
feeling trapped
territory unmapped, uncharted dark paths towards adulthood
little stops to loiter, pre-teen fearing mean kids,
puberty falls like brooding waves crashing his childish shores
innocent no more,
arousal and desire only confuse his world, was he hurled too soon?

Now as all the decades roll by, only familiar sky seems to stay
in its place, his face eroding like his sandcastles
all crumbled into their constituent crystalline sand,
his hands look like pale leather; the weather is turning warm again…

He draws a deep longing breath, regulating his racing brain
drawing slow circles in his mind’s eye to defy the din,
now as noise recedes, he softly sighs
always there was this wall, this reluctance to easily fall into life
growing up was never agreed on
never.

Chris