Mid-life blah blah

this year is tough like
all years
stiffer than most
maybe that's just 39
year old joints

who knows
who cares

you still have your
hair and a sense
of doom eclipsed
by nine after noon
when shadows and
the moon hedge bets

your head is wedged
in dreams
and in your room
you sit alone

and the doctor says
it's part of the illness
isolation comfort

amid row upon
row
of exes and bottles

like stones for drowning

but laugh
and the world
stares and wonders
where your brains have gone

for all your bravery you were just delaying
recognizing your life
as dust and bones

while waiting to buy a fast car
for fleeing faster
home