Fred Aiken Writing

my knees have begun to hurt,

and I don’t think they’re going to get any better,

which is to say that I don’t think they’ll let me into the NBA

at the ripe age of thirty,

since it seems like those guys need the function of their knees,

elbows, joints, all of which have begun to fail me

at a time in my life before I could ever experience a midlife crisis,

so I better hurry up,

grab a sports car that’s inches from the ground,

with a massive stereo system that vibrates the asphalt as I pass by,

and take up vaping marijuana while listening to NWA,

wearing Ray Bans, 

though they’re probably knock-offs since they only cost twenty bucks,

and I’ll sign-up for a gym membership that I only use once a month

after polishing off a pint of ice cream and feeling disgusting the next morning,

knowing that I’m getting older,

fatter,

and less able to keep up with the punches

because I sneak Lindt chocolates all day and don’t do cardio,

always overfill my plate with carbs and cheese to the brink,

tell myself that rather than walking I could just drive to my destination,

wherever it might be,

which has become infrequent since I’ve become

less sociable as I grow older,

jaded against people I don’t know

for reasons I can’t comprehend,

while acknowledging a litany of personal faults that I’d rather not change,

whether I wanted to or not,

I don’t,

it wouldn’t matter,

I can’t help but resign my life to the creases I create

when I sit down,

my impact,

my shows,

my comfort