The Golden Years by Nicholas DiClementi

I

You could have tried your whole life
to end up here and
it wouldn’t have panned out. No,
surely this is accident,
or fate, or
is there really any difference?
You can’t say.
Who can say?
You know only that
your skin looked younger, once,
your eyes not so tired.

You used to laugh.
Remember
how you used to laugh?
Back then, you ran funnily:
“Look at how he closes his fists, and
his thumbs stick out.”
Now you don’t run at all.

II

You’ve followed many streets and
none have led you
to any overwhelming question.
The rain falls
on the window
in soft patterns and
you struggle,
struggle to get out of bed,
struggle
just to put on your slippers and
walk to the bathroom and
take a god damn piss,
can’t even take a god damn piss anymore
without a fucking miracle.

They call these the Golden Years.
Pulling yourself out of bed,
you lose balance and
come crashing to the ground and

suddenly you’re seventeen and
you’re finishing a cigarette
before you fuck for the first time
in the back of your parents’ car.
Your breath smells like smoke and
her hair smells like vanilla and
you pay no attention to
the cliché of it all.

Then you’re driving.
“Summer of 69” is playing loudly and
you’re laughing and
you realize every summer is
the summer of 69
and it’s good to be alive
and to laugh
and love
and fuck.
It could be worse, right?

III

You wake up on the cold floor and
what do you know?
You’ve fucking pissed yourself again.