one year at five is a fifth of my life,
one year at thirty five is one thirty-fifth of my life,
making sense in a roundabout way.
Round the rosy.
Round and round.
See, the older I am,
the more experience I’ve accumulated,
the bigger piece of the pie I should have.
But it shrinks.
A sliver of pie until
I’m left with crumbs.
Posy pocket crumbs.
Licking my fingers, with whatever’s left.
We all fall down.