I remember hitting 30, like yesterday,
The hair thinner than my 20s,
The confidence considerably thicker though,
After 5 years in graduate school.
Now I look on the mirror to see a plumping man,
With a little tummy tires and 40 something waistline
And a flabby neck getting flabbier by the day.
And I look at my dreams
That unlike Rocky Balboa will not
Be not be coming for a 7th edition.
And only a lass as shy as Mrs Balboa
Cheering me on from the sidelines.
Only, I have no clue why I’m still in the ring, like
Old man Foreman, selling a barbecue machine,
And still there is some purpose in life,
I tell myself.
Purpose, like a wishing well
Dried of water – and wishes – looks a bleak land.
Still I shovel the now fallow fields
Like I was introduced to my wife
Just yesterday, her lips that look
Devilishly inviting, like a date plum
The pulp of which, is pushed apart
From the center.
And love, just like a piece of mahogany furniture
Still looks ravishing even
With a lesser varnish. That piece of furniture
Becomes, from a sassy armchair
With new cushions, into an
Antique, which now, can only be
Anointed, for her sheer elegance,
A mere classic that stops
Aging and becomes a vintage.
Now you look at her, you are trapped
In an illusion, that when claimed
By the retina, makes time stand still
And space move closer and closer
Until the epicurean moment
Is yours and hers, and all that remains
Is to close the deal, unfurling your lips,
Like a greening leaflet in the sun, yielding
A hermitage that only knows the fleeting occupancy
Of two butterfly-winged lips.