By twenty I’d be a poet.
By thirty, a novelist.
By forty, a memoirist.
Perhaps a decade anon
I’d expire telling stories
By a babbling brook
With a smoldering fire
And a jug of wine.
At thirty nine I took inventory.
The workbench was sow backed
But the warehouse was bare…(Source: “Mission Reboot”, 40×41: Midlife Crisis Postponed)
This is an excerpt from one of the earliest poems in this quirky cycle. It hints at the despair I’m struggling to overcome as I approach my fortieth birthday. No pity, folks. I will overcome! 🙂