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The Freudian PositionTo T. O. Davis's previous piece     FencingTo T. O. Davis's next piece

I used to road march in shit like this,
I said, pointing to the streaming white.
Then my knees creaked,
and I couldn't climb a flight of stairs
without hot, wheezing pain
snorting from flared nostrils,
snot threatening to smear my good shirt
fresh from the dryer.
I cry for nitroglycerin
and wonder if EMS will have to electrocute me.
At the summit, I gasp and sputter each Saint
through thick saliva. 

God, I'm old.