On Being Under the Age of 20

My mor­tal­ity con­tin­ues to affront me mercilessly –
Writ­ing a letter, I ima­gine it old and yellow
in a dis­tant des­cend­ant’s hands, exclaiming
wonder at dis­cov­er­ing such an ancient document.

Walk­ing under a con­crete tunnel, I envisaged
The crash­ing col­lapse, and the news­pa­per headlines.
It took a year to emerge into the light:
Each step felt like wading through cement.

I dis­covered myself clutch­ing a knife in shock,
con­tem­plat­ing sur­gic­ally remov­ing some­thing intangible
from my stom­ach, but decided against it.

Motor vehicles enjoy the exhil­ar­a­tion of almost,
but not quite remov­ing my toes,
and i resolve to drive care­fully myself
(for the sake of others)
But real­ise I am risk­ing my sanity.

I am sure to die of some disorder
of the pitu­it­ary gland.