The Sequel to That Coming of Age Piece
I just watched the best,
most unlikely performance
of a broken heart. I could
spend these lines explaining
why best, why unlikely,
maybe point out that it’s a
coming of age performance,
explain why that seems to me
to be the case and therefore is.
But why waste so much time
on youth. For people like me
who are late bloomers, youth
is a metaphor all too real.
When did I wake up old? I
mean mature. All of what
led up to that point, that
transformation, an entire
lifetime almost, if in retro
spect that feels like such
a waste—and it does,
absolutely; where was
meaning, why so much
vapid nothingness, the
unlivable planet of just
getting there, of just
pining, and what a farce
if all we can do when we
finally arrive is look back
and grieve the nobody
that we once were, and
with tears in our eyes,
with such a soul-smashing
nostalgia, wake up each
new morning celebrating
the night we spent soaked
and flailing around for what
seems like an eternity,
finally to pass out and
inevitably awaken a
man. I sure fooled
you, though,
didn’t I?
