when
I was eighteen
I lit a fire
in a flower pot
being used as an
ashtray

the flames consumed
the debris we fed it
until the police
stopped the feast

stopped me dead in my tracks
told me hold it right there

I didn’t care
but the gray in my hair
now does

the gray in my hair
watches me not find a job
pleads with the inner voice
that got me into this mess

to hold it together
to never give up
to be kinder to myself
to be thankful for second chances

but the knives
still find my skin

how many years must pass
for these images to finally fade?

what would I trade?
life abating

nothing I shout
nothing till I’m hoarse
 in the mouth

I’m waiting
for these moments to make sense
but all I sense is time jading

the wind
the sun
the sky
the moon

there’s me looking older
same head of hair
that got me into
this mess

there’s me
& me
avoiding
the truth

& the necessary
forms