
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.
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