I saw into the future a few times in my life and it was always scary.
My scalp is beginning to display itself.
Like leaves in a steady breeze in early autumn
one by one, my hair drops off
flutters slowly
till the branch is bare.
My belly grows between my feet and my face,
and when I look down, instead of my toes
I see only my navel, squinting,
always moving out, always sinking in.
The skin under my eyes is drooping, drooping
drooping, but it’s hardly noticeable.
My chins are diving towards my chest.
My loins rarely ache
for a female’s fluffy underbelly
which is good
since I really need the rest anyway.
Actually, I’m in pretty good shape.
I might even start jogging
or something.
I always meant to.
Got a few ideas for a novel
and I’ve done some thinking about a play.
Yes, there’s life in the old boy yet.
Life in the old boy yet.
December 3, 1971
Three weeks later, I turned a tender twenty-five.
My first running diary begins in February 1972.
You might say I had a vision.