I am good at hiding things
I have been doing it all of my life.
If you met me
on the street
at a party
on the job
you would never know
that I am a core of hunger
wrapped in fleshy enigma
wanting what I cannot have,
or gave away,
or let slip from my grasp.

Wish in one hand,
spit in the other,
see which one fills up first
was Nanny’s advice,
but to never let myself
be who I was
behind the mask
was to deny myself
the freedom to fail.

Is it possible to accrue time
day after day as I age,
and lose the time I have left
day after day spent
simultaneously?

I look at the gray,
the wrinkles and creases,
my six-pack become a keg
and the only part of the boy I was
is the twinkle in my blue eyes.
And I try to fool myself into thinking
that is enough,
that I am still me inside here
even if nobody ever knows.

But there is no fooling
an old fool,
is there?