The Small Wars

I wake to the ache in my bones,
the muscle spasms in my back,
a quiet coup under my flesh.
The mirrors say sixty,
my hands say forty,
my mind thinks it’s still seventeen,
wants to skinny dip with my girlfriend,
run down a fairway,
cruise to the pond,
rod in the trunk,
fish on a line,
heart thundering like the feral fields of youth,
lungs full, as if time is just a concept.
That perfect ting on hole number three,
the golf ball arcs against the sky,
white on pale blue,
and I imagine no pain in my knees,
my spine stretching like a stiff fence pole.
The pond waits, slight ripples in patience,
but I dive anyway,
laughter splashing across the water,
telling gravity to kiss my ass.
Bones creak, grind their warnings.
X-rays lecture in black and white.
But I slip into my golf shoes anyway,
throw the line,
swing the seven iron,
jog the stretch of road
where the wind is crisp
and the earth feels younger than me.
I’m a stubborn test,
an experiment in defiance,
a mind that laughs
at the calendar.
Evening sets the skyline
in orange and violet fire.
I bend to untie my shoes,
fingers stiff,
back humming low.
Yet I remember every made putt,
every crushed drive,
every sudden tug of the line
and the clean disappearance of the bobber—
the smell of wet grass,
the bite of cold water,
the raw pulse of living
in spite of age.
I’ll wake tomorrow
and do it again.
This is my small war with time,
my proud insistence:
I am not done.