34 (NaPoWriMo 10)

Warehouse raves to weeding flowerbeds is a core millennial experience.

Bed full of cosmos, neatly weeded,
Manicured lawn, cleanly edged,
Atavistic appetite, somewhat receded;

The jobs are done; exhale, recline,
Incredulous that this same skin,
Once glowed and ached with city grime,

Before the dawn and morning's light,
In soft suburban blanket wrapped,
Flickers vignette of distant night,

Soft waves on the shingle shore,
4/4 bass pound, basement enclosed,
Midnight vision, release to adore,

Youthful alacrity,
Takes us near and far at once;
Sprawl and vodka by the sea,

Hand on shoulder, girl, pal, guy;
Head pulsates and aching jaw,
Hard to top, but worth a try,

Driver stops, bids goodnight,
Silent street, warm winds awash,
Our home in orange shadow finite,

Morning washes up the shore,
Dormant urge along to sate,
A future where I want no more.

---

I am an Adult™, I guess, but what does this mean? I tick lots of the boxes on paper, but acting my age and being a responsible grown up is, at best, a conscious act I can’t maintain consistently. Worse still is the fact that when I’ve held the decision for too long, I have an atavistic urge to regress to my twenties, hurl off responsibility; be impulsive, take risks, break out of my routines, and be messy-drunk with people I barely know somewhere indescribable. Then I snap out of it and get back to the gardening. Oh boy, is this a midlife crisis?

(The key is to marry someone older than you who generally behaves like a teenager—it’s certainly worked for me.)