I’m getting old.
Not trousers rolled old.
But wearing my belt
like the equator old.
It separates the northern
hemisphere from the southern,
And my gut hangs across
me like the Milky Way.
Just a leather line of distinction
separates
between who I am becoming
and who I thought I was.
The buckle, the only
closed gate damming
up the disproportions.
Visual evidence of
my incongruence.
I feel top heavy with
an umbilical stub
leading on.
Infancy and efficacy
bound with a body bracelet.

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