Phantom Youth

Maybe the only universal truth
is the steady existence of phantom youth.

The teenage extremes, 
the cool drawls of ambivalence,
the angular excitable limbs,
the flashes in the eyes,
the bravado and insecurity all meshed together
into a super-charged raw animal mixture of total 
joy and madness.

But one day comes when we are no longer the target market,
and we think that maybe that old high school teacher was right
when he said, 'Youth is wasted on youth.'
But of course we didn't understand that, then.

Even though our hearts no longer race and thud 
like cat's feet down stairs, 
and our nights aren't spent feeling small
in dimly lit rooms pondering what it's all about,
or parading down suburb sidewalks drunk with the night,
or stretching our bodies under warm blankets late in the morning,
or worrying and fretting 
about what somebody might have thought, or said, or implied,
that phantom youth alights upon us
like a soft talisman hitting us like a stone.

And suddenly we need to catch a snowflake on our tongue,
make an angel in the snow,
ride our bikes through rain puddles,
breath in the earth and mud and rain of Spring,
let our backs be warmed by the sun,
grab someone we love with fierce joy,
and live deliberately.

Sometimes the phantom of youth is lamentable.
We rise, feeling refined but dull
pushing our shopping carts through
grocery aisles, reading nutrition labels
and later touching the soft parts of our bodies
with a tired caress.

Maybe I'm just childless and naive.
And maybe these idle days of chasing dreams,
smiling at trees and drinking tea
has left me with a bankruptcy
of responsibility.

Or maybe I'm just okay
with letting the phantoms
swirl about just enough
to make me sound and sweet
and forever meet 
each moment 
with pulse and heat.