First Draft
I force myself to ride my bike and exercise because my body is always tried, and initially I meant tired, but I kept the typo because these days the two are interchangeable. I maintain August is the new 50 and the season when Starbucks starts selling Pumpkin Spice is the new middle age, but I understand just because I only order tea doesn’t mean I’m not their target customer. A man’s biological clock is not measured in the desire to conceive, but in how he reacts each time to realizations gone by the wayside, and I’m more botanist and philosopher than ever and have learned to stop and smell the roses covered in dog piss and shit, so I ask does that make the blooming any less beautiful? I now see details in commercials and surmise the alpaca sticking its long neck out from the sunroof is sorta like a metaphor alluding to head in the clouds because when we’re rooted too much on land we fail to applaud the fog insulating us from ourselves. I struggle down PCH and the Long Beach breeze coaxes me to keep pedaling, despite the fatigue in my legs and life with the promise of later bringing my green tea to my lips and guzzling down the last few drops as if nursing a thirst that can never really be quenched.
August
Today is Wednesday,
midweek when the marina
hosts my favorite farmer’s market.
Some refer to today as hump,
but when is getting over on yourself
something you should aim for?
The patrons stroll from stand to stand,
holding up cartons of produce to their faces
speculating how it will taste
and age.
I’m unsure how to feel about turning
50 next month,
but the mirror reflecting
a muscular frame demonstrating
all the weight it’s learned to carry
as if it couldn’t let me in on
the necessity of
no pain… no gain
is rooting for embrace.
The cover band croons,
my wife and I eat homemade pupusas,
and the coral evening sky
begs to be eulogized before
another
workday.
I reflect on my mortality more so than ever
and ponder the anatomy of a legacy,
the way it weaves in and out of
loved one’s lives like the ripeness of
yesteryear,
the freshness
of tomorrow.
Daniel Romo is the author of Bum Knees and Grieving Sunsets (FlowerSong Press 2023), Moonlighting as an Avalanche (Tebot Bach 2021), Apologies in Reverse (FutureCycle Press 2019), and other books. His work can be found in The Los Angeles Review, MAYDAY, Hotel Amerika, and elsewhere. He received an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte, and he lives, teaches, and rides his bikes in Long Beach, CA. More at danieljromo.com.