Turning Forty
It's hot outside and I stink
The fetid odor of ammonia
Rising from beneath my shirt
To assault my nostrils.
Why does my chest hurt?
Why are my muscles always sore?
Truly, I am a physical marvel at my age
At this time
In this place.
So why do I feel like shit?
Why has a deep malaise settled in
Like fog seeping over the Ohio?
This mild discontent
Sours my birthday
And makes me think
Of death and time
And all the terrible malefactors
Presiding over the land of the free.
I just want to forget about news
The stressors of life
My job and all my sundry duties
Is that so much to ask?
Turns out, it is.
Welcome, friend, to adulthood.
You're middle-aged, bitch.
Most of us didn't make it this far.
Be thankful what you have.
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