Faded Past The Post

 
























Either the arms are getting shorter, or the rest
of me has grown away – don’t need reminding
each time I shower – supposedly I am aware
there’s a directory to it suggesting my age has
a role, a wilting attention span as a giveaway

Told it’s connected with cerebral width, that is
the measure of how you cope – if there’s such
a thing, but the tone and pitch of mine’s gone
absent without leave on a pretext it’s nothing 
to do with me, plus assorted other expletives

I don’t feel any less competent tho’ eyes see
what they want; probably won’t assure me it
wasn’t always thus. And all confidence drawn
invigorates in a spa’s indulgence after many
a hard day’s or night’s indiscretions, but

Being discrete takes far more character than
these short arms are known for. Not that I’m
a slob-like chameleon – too easy a task, dour
theatrical skills mostly ensure I’m a potpourri
of the essential elements usually present, so

Like it or lump it, I don’t have the reach you
evaded easily back then – does that explain
why you’re in my face so frequently; or is it
that you, too, faded past the post before the
last hurrah rang still as its echo died
© 7 June 2013, I. D. Carswell