Somewhere between
first grade
and old age
my youth peeled away
like sunburned skin.
Hands that used to
make forts,
and make out,
shout at me now
for steroid shots.
The soundtrack for life
isn’t BB-19
on a chrome jukebox
in a diner on Tenth.
The jukebox came down.
And so did my chin.
Those tunes blew away
like colored balloons
released from
our playground
before the Cold War.
Maybe I’ll fly a balloon again
soon, and discover
what pasture it splashes
with pink.
It could touch down
in Topeka …
although
I know I’m a long way
from Kansas
by now.
