I am almost 30.

I am approximately,



bordering on 30.

I am scared.

I am hopeful.

I am sure.

I am lost.

I am void.

I am numb.

I am almost 30.

When the sky opens and emits liquid goo,

my knees creak and I say things like,

“My joints are acting up again!”

I am almost 30.

When the server asks me if I want fries or chips,

I say, “I’ll have the side salad in lieu.” 

I am almost 30.

I don’t listen to the radio.

I listen to podcasts.

I am almost 30.

I don’t read the gossip columns,

I study weather forecasts.

I am almost 30.

I am so old,

I am so young

I am in-between,

I am overstrung,

And unsung

there among

the brazen twenties,

their souls aflame,

their eyes so wide you could shoot them out

7.9 feet away with a dart

from the pub

where I met my last love

and our insides came together as one

and our bodies




through cheap sheets and a mattress we bought online

that seemed reasonable for the time 


And there we stand,


staring 30 in the face

a map of memories that can be traced.

Trails of laugher permanently placed

on our skin.

You are almost 30.

I am almost 30.

And then 40.

And then 50.

And then the skies will open up,

And I will say,

“Grab the acetaminophen, darlin’,

my joints are acting up again.”

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *