I’m flat running on poetic fumes. Numbers 99 and 100 have outlines, but we’re not there yet. This is one of three in the countdown to the countdown. I’m not being aided by what seems to be a slight relapse toward the sick end of the spectrum.

Never having children,
I decided not to grow up.
Perhaps, rather, these two
thoughts intertwined,
reinforcing the other. 
Prospective parenthood
seemed to demand more
maturity than I cared to
exhibit on a continual 
basis. And toys! Surely
I deserved toys as much,
no, more than some lucky
random assignation of
my genes? 

Truly this screams of
revisionist history. 
My arrival at the
Maturity Party came
late. I could not more
think of children while
teaching 150 of 'em
each day than I could
see how my chances to
sire some dwindled each
year I drifted away from
my partner. One last gasp,
one chance to Be The Dad,
dashed when my new wife
vanquished cancer but
destroyed motherhood in
the process. Just as well.
Advanced Childhood has
served me as well as
Stumbling Adulthood 
seems to have served others.

---

96/100
100 poems in 100 days