Feel Old

The year I learned with the heart-pounding subtlety
Of a surprise sledgehammer to the core
The true meaning of the phrase
"What goes around comes around"--
Being left by those I'd left before.

If anything my own beaten path
Should have shown how easy the nomad adapts,
The stepping away, stepping back
From places that once were home,
Now only footprints and timestamps, no more.

I wonder how this could feel like a sneak attack
When it so obviously lurked,
The only real outcome, waiting behind
Doors one-two-and-three, how this moment
Of domestic bliss would of course
Evolve into an image in a picture frame,
A time capsule, souvenirs, fleeting as
The hot bolts of a lightning storm,
Leaving the air quite different from its
Charged state moments before.

It's not like this was a snake in the grass,
Was not stealthy, fast,
Instead feels oddly like a relic from my past,
Finally finding its way home, perhaps
Following a strange path
But irascible nonetheless, inevitable,
Unshakable, a Real Blow but not
Emerging from nowhere, no.

And I've told myself this is how we grow,
Older but some of us not bold,
Determined to grasp the trailing strings
Take hold of disintegrating things,
Clasped tight to keep from turning cold.

But I feel old. I feel like
A yardsale in January, and the wares
Are valued solely by me,
And thus will not be sold.