Spent my twenties in the penalty box,
arms and legs crossed,
bulldog wrinkle between my eyes,
staring at the older ref who
singled me out,
wheat beer depressed,
everything blacked out,
willing my biological clock
to countdown,
hoping it would run out.
Watching the the game go on,
knees twitching,
plotting my exit route.
Spent my twenties shouting plays
I could never orchestrate,
canned food casseroles,
and ramen noodles,
difficult to masturbate.
Reading books I’d soon flatulate,
pep-talking myself on the bench,
bullying the enemy,
caught on a technicality,
so now I’d have to sit this season
of life out.
Spent my twenties in the sin bin,
fuming,
waiting for an ejection,
further from scoring,
further from maturing,
further from desire,
winded,
waiting for
the whole damn decade to expire.
© 2022 | K.Hartless
Inspired by a KurtVonnegut quote:
“Any man can call timeout, but no man can say
how long that timeout will be.”Cat’s Cradle
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
Leave a comment