In Ages Past
One night I wandered helpless as a child
through fields of bonfires lit as in ages past.
As tribal elders gathered in the wild,
I sought my clan as long as night would last.
To my relief, the trip that I was on
of mescaline mixed with a little beer,
joined darkness' gradual melting into dawn
where my "elders'" youthfulness grew more than clear.
I have this same sensation more and more:
when by default I answer her with "ma'am,"
a chuckling adolescent at the store
reminds me just how freaking old I am.
There's no relief this time, just real surprise
as she shrinks out of reach before my eyes.
Tim Hawkins has lived and traveled widely throughout North America, Southeast Asia and Latin America, where he has worked as a journalist, technical writer, communications manager, and teacher in international schools. He currently lives in his hometown of Grand Rapids, Michigan. His writing has appeared most recently in The Flea, Lucid Rhythms, The Pedestal Magazine, Shot Glass Journal and Underground Voices, and is forthcoming in Blueline, Iron Horse Literary Review, The Midwest Quarterly, 13 Miles from Cleveland and Verse Wisconsin.