For Jethro and Jake. Do excuse the censored expletive, as I sort of don’t, err, actually type swearwords up on here.
“I’m f****** old.” he says.
Perhaps he is,
if philosophy means aging prematurely.
He sounds a bit like forty,
an intellectual silver fox.
His rhetoric is ruthless,
my reasoning is cut to ribbons.
Still, it’s age on a hair-trigger.
A brief lapse in the momentum–
friend’s laughter, rude gesture,
naked chicken spread-eagled on kitchen counter–
reveals the boy in the philosopher: bright eyes, hot laughter,
and youth; still yearning, chasing
after the next big, brilliant thing.
You’re not old yet; you’re only beginning.