Middle Age I have found to be a painful reminder

of melancholy memory. I tell myself that I am not old,

nor scared of what is to come, the hurt of loss, the fragility of kindness,

that I have these greying bags under my blue eyes not because I am tired,

exhausted with continuous running and pulls on my time,

nor wish for a deep dreamless sleep every night

in which nightmares are also kept at bay without the aid

of a chain of garlic slices hung around my fattening neck,