“too old”

I remember when I was young in this game.
So young.
So much po-
tential.
So much to
do.
So much to
get.
The people at the gallery openings, they would all tell me,
“My, how young you are. There is so much for you.”

Four years later,
having given it up,
having left town,
having not hung another hook,
nobody has these kind words for me anymore.

I never did know where to locate my happiness;
My appreciation for this youth.
So, as all the new young kids enter the game,
their sense of entitlement probably as shrewd as my own at one time.
Some of them will make the same mistakes I did.
With the UHaul;
With the girl;
With the career;
With the world.

I remember when I was young in this game.
So young.
I am almost thirty now.
I am almost certain that some no longer call this young.
And the truth is,
I will not learn how to locate my happiness
until I am old again,
old in the game;
Old in the world;
Too old for girls.
Nearly too old to even lift the coffee cup,
but until I am dead,
I should always be able to at least put my mouth
on that,
always be able to type out my thoughts,
always be able to slap some color down,
and tell my favorite ladies, whether they want to hear it or not,
just how painful
above and below my stomach
they are to look at,
walking past me so tall in black knee length satin,
now that I am called
too old.

narrative poem written on 06-29-2010 by: on mattkane.com
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