All the Sad Old Men

“I wouldn’t want to be that old. An old man is a nasty thing.”
--Ernest Hemingway from “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place”

Otro Loco Mas

There’s a certain cruel symmetry when fate finally makes you
what it is you’ve always pretended to be.
When the poser becomes the pose does the masquerade end?
I often walked the waterfront at night, alone, collar up,
head bent against the cold wind whipping across the lake,
watching myself in my mind’s eye, the solitary figure,
courting danger, emerging from the dark, shoulders broad,
fists clenched in anticipation of the sudden leap from shadows
the desperate demands of an unshaven, craven attacker,
shaking hands waving a gun or knife, voice trembling,
blood-shot eyes widening in brief recognition of the seriousness
of his choices as a lifetime of anger unleashes itself upon
his soon-to-be broken body, so unprepared for what it has wrought.
Somewhere, an old man escaped once more his punishment
for abandoning the boy who was cursed to be this raging man.
The situations changed, but the solitary nature of my journey
never changed. The search continued, sometimes relationships
were formed, but they only lasted for a short time: the yearning
continued. Hearing that the old man died did not bring closure
but left the gnawing, unanswered question as to who I am to fester
and fill me inside, until there was room for nothing else and no one else.
It was easier to stay aloof, cold, quiet, brooding, observing all,
touching nothing, except emptiness, embracing loneliness, living
in the darkness. When it was time to emerge, I did not know how.
The rage was replaced by nothing. Nada. No one reached out. Life
had passed by. The years sprinted ahead as I slowed down. I tried
to keep up, but I could not do it alone. Alone. What a horrible word.
What a horrible place to be. I am now who I always pretended to be.
I no longer seek the darkness. Please turn on the light. Just until dawn.