Time is my boy,

Tumbling on the mats

At the YMCA into

Manhood.

A Cycle

Of hands over legs, feet over fists,

A fumble of again and

Again in

A drunken stumble,

Never straight line

Into the future.

That was yesterday’s fall, failure/success

Depending on who you ask.

Into the yawning maw of unknowing,

The fete’ accomplis

Is generally knowing how

The cookie crumbles

When the acrobat crushes it in his stride.

Take the crumbs and put them

In my cup.

And that is time.