You are 54. It’s the dead of winter. You’re at a dinner, drunk, you are trembling with desire, you self-consciously intone Shakespeare to yourself in the restroom, hoping no one enters, then glance at yourself, glasses, beard, and stop. Wash your hands, under the fingernails.
You are 21. It’s early spring, ice still on the walks. You are scratching the tiny beard of your perfect heart-shaped face, precise nose, you are proud of your chiseled face, you are making a decision to caress it everywhere.
You are 38. It’s late spring, and blooming. You just had sex with a woman and you’re thinking of geese flying over the San Fernando Valley and how rain comes to us from a million miles and then you reach for a newspaper and say to the poem working itself out in your head, ‘hold on.’
You are 46. It’s winter, roughly. You just took a shower. You are sitting on a white couch in a beautiful apartment with a tall plant, and muted reds on the walls; with a nice pen you strike the personal, allowing philosophy to inform a dare you wish you had made.
You’re 40. It’s hot, glorious summer. You are tramping through underbrush, the burrs are sticking to your trousers, your torn Mr. Rogers sweater, your glorious brown shoes…
You’re 30. It’s September. You’re sitting around on a long afternoon, drinking Buds and playing poker with friends: three musicians and a rocket scientist. You’re very relaxed, having a good time, when suddenly, a melancholy fit descends.