The poem that caught my eye and my heart this week was Peter Munro's beautifully human "If This Is Middle Age Then I’ll Die At 93.667". The picture of the British sitcom "Outnumbered" cast seemed right in spirit. Loved that show, love this poem. And Munro uses form to capture the kisses and bites of family life. What's not to like?
IF THIS IS MIDDLE AGE THEN I’LL DIE AT 93.667
I’m old enough this horniness should lapse.
I’m told it will. Mortgage. College fund. Worry.
I’ve fallen into all the usual traps
guys fear: mid-level management, a dreary
cubicle (will the corner office be mine?
I’m told it will), mortgage, college fund, worry
that our five-year-old will poke out his eye
playing war or the treehouse might collapse
under our first-grader. My grand designs
(to win the World Cup, a Nobel and, perhaps,
impose world peace) are currently on hold.
I’m old enough this horniness should lapse
as well, should wilt away or come unsouled
from the body. Instead, the atoms that ferry
my life vibrate me till I am made bold,
electric with a steadily thrummed fury,
urgent to loosen the clips, cups, and straps
binding my wife’s breasts. Deftly, she parries
Destructo Rays that our five-year-old zaps
at us, fired across a toy-strewn battlefield.
I’ve fallen into all the usual traps:
contentment, comfort, the standard epic told
bardic: plans foiled, retreat, good guys harried
then bad guys driven back by our six-year-old,
everyone safe at last. I love, unwary
I kiss my wife. The world may fall to scraps.
I’m told it will. Mortgage, college fund, worry:
I’ve fallen into all the usual traps.
I’m old enough. This horniness should lapse.
Today on Rattle, posted Oct. 21, 2015
from Rattle #49, Fall 2015
Tribute to Scientists