I was a circus performer in my youth.
I was a painter, an architect, a garbage collector, a tree.
I was separate//and distinct. I did not play jumprope or four square,
I was busy, was otherwise engaged, was too adult//in my youth.

I am making up for lost time.
“You are /too/ /old/ to behave like this,” they tell me. They are older
even than I am and tired of my antics. Of jumprope and four square
and of laughter.

I used proper punctuation in my youth.
I flossed and brushed and vacuumed, I was a single-handed war on dirt
and dust and childhood. I never made mud pies,
never dug up worms, never cut my hair into strange peaks and valleys.

I am making up for lost time.
Yesterday I learned how granular dirt feels when damp,
when rained upon. How like sugar as it spills out, across bare fingers
and the terra cotta pots lining the back porch are still unplanted
because I liked the feel of soil too well to disguise it
in leaves.

I drank coffee in my youth.
I abhorred hot cocoa, I spurned melting marshmallows.
Birthday parties were sedate, were solemn. I would not smash
my cake, did not want to smear icing into my hair.
I was too conscious of seeming foolish//in my youth.

I am making up for lost time.