Soapbox Poet

It’s a slippery slope. (a poem)

At 16, I celebrated

my 30th birthday

cavernous and crimson

a well-aged wine

poured from the barrel too soon.

At 18, I experienced

my birthday in the depths

a well-washed stone

shaping… molding

and taking the tide as it comes.

At 22, I learned

that at 16, 18, at all of those

pivotal moments most wasted

by giving others the keys,

you’ll hydroplane.

At 9:12 am, I recognized

that slippery slope

is an inhospitable guest

sliding on carved time,

skating on patience.