TO HAVE UNDERSTOOD

so little
at this age,
to be so late
in this life,
now strikes me
as funny.
The stumbles,
the missteps,
hitting
the ground
thinking:
I swear
the floor
was there.
Complexities
concocted
as the traffic
roared around
me. My breastbone
my blacktop's
white line; my thumb
up my ass.
Sometimes
the cars gave up
coming to a halt
and no matter how
many horns blared,
how many radiators
overheated, how much
steam rose from hoods,
they stayed
stuck. Fist fights
broke out
in my brain beating
each side
to a bloody pulp.

And now...
now it's all so simple:
I'm better
alone.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016