Midlife Crisis

Midlife Crisis

Stirred by a trickle of cold sweat,
I snap awake, aware at last of the chords that bind.

Blackjacked by the weight of time,
I can barely remember my life before.

I have a groggy recollection of starring in my own film noir:
a crumpled fag packet, wind-blown from gutter to gutter.

In sudden realisation that my course isn't set,
is not a pre-determined path with staggered footfalls

ready to be stepped, I squirm in my torpor of this mundane
existence,
vow to kick and scream and punch.

I'll light the acetylene of my torch if necessary.
I won't go without a fight.