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July 24, 2013

Sometimes I still feel like a kid: like when,
at twenty-some, you taught me how to shave
with shaving cream and  pull-type razor blades;
or when I come upstairs to find my clothes,
already moved onto the rack to dry
(though I had meant to do that step myself);
and in those moments, it’s a pleasant thing—
to feel oneself a child; but then I look,
and see the world outside, the moving earth,
and I don’t feel so young—but neither old—
in limbo does my tired shadow fall:
too useless an adult, too old a child;
I’m self-condemned to sit in ageless hell—
since I have not the drive to move, or dream,
or work, or sleep, or wake, or eat, or drink.
In light of this, I do not mind so much
when circumstances see me as a child;
for then, at least, I feel somewhat defined.
Perhaps that’s why I watch R-rated films:
for then I know that I must be grown up.

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