More Fortily


More Fortily
 
Last year, or maybe two ago,
I lost eighty-four minutes
            Of wake-time to sleep
            Enjoying a seventh hour
            Of slumber each night:
Fortily nap-needing. 
 
My waist, twenty-nine at thirty,
Now spreads out to thirty-two,
            Ok, thirty-three,
            Depending on the jean cut,
            Depending on lunch:
Fortily wrestler-built.
 
Hair, once my tall-spiked signature--
Me solia llamar Pelo--
            Sprouts most everywhere
            I'd rather it wouldn't grow,
            Stubbling ears, back, nose.
Fortily thinning grey.
 
Miles, thousands I ran as a kid,
Shirtless, barefoot on the beach,
            Catch up, knees crackle,
            Creases and freckles skin-dot,
            Spine and elbows snap:
Fortily less limber.
 
More pee.
More gin.
More Tums.
More Tea.
      More T.
            More Fortily.
 
The son, or sons, I'd have fathered,
Had I chosen that, would be
            Graduating now,
            Just like nephews and friends' sons
            And their sons' girlfriends.
Fortily bad-uncle-ing.
 
Words, cursed gifts, metered emissions,
Tongue-linger a bit longer,
            Stuck twixt brain and page,
            Disrupting discourse, debate,
            Feigning wrought wisdom:
Fortily what's-the-word-ing.
 
Defeats, historically many,
Fade behind sweet sentiment,
            Conflated victories,
            Writ with Momentitiousness
            Embracing promise,
Fortily love-loving.
 

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