Having never felt this old,
nor so young and inept
– and simultaneously –
there’s a fence-crashing, a home-burning,
a finding-one’s-own-nose-on-someone-else kind of mess.
What is to be done with a tension like that?
Stretch with it.
Let be torn loose the decayed, the ineffectual,
follow the twisting into the twist,
watch new movements be born.
Still, if I’m a living version of a mr. potato head,
could I waddle in those shoes a ways?
It might do me some good.