the creeping annoyances of middle-aging, in early spring

out of nowhere low-grade fevers and petty aches
the impossibility of sleep, maybe the worst indignity

or maybe all the extra consideration of all the small things:
to eat or not to eat fried food
tracking sugar intake
no to all things — caffeine, nicotine, full fat anything

treating the body
like an old rebuilt F-150, waiting
for the transmission to drop
running 80 down the interstate.

We are not a running people

for my daughter

We are not a running people
but there are those that are:
they fritter and flit,
live short, blinky firefly lives
remembered by the absence of light
compared kindly to stars, nor are we those
moved along assembly lines of soul and civilization
processed and packaged and distributed wholesale.

We are not them, to be prized then lost
in the back of a closet, broken
in the bottom of child’s toy box, disappeared
in the furniture with pennies and nickels
no one digs out anymore to buy
overpriced packs of cigarettes.