Please, One More Day In My 19 Year Old Body My mom opens the mustard-yellow refrigerator door, A popular color in the 1960s. Reaches in for the glass bottle of whole milk. Shuffles over to my cereal bowl, Careful not to let her tattered bathrobe get wet. In a spiral motion she slowly pours the milk over my Rice Krispies And I hear the snap, crackle, pop promised by the elves. At least I think they were elves but I may have my cereals mixed up with my cookies, It’s been a long time since I’ve sat in the flower wall-papered kitchen of my youth. These days, the snap, crackle, pop comes after I finish my cereal and grunt to stand up. In the morning after brushing my teeth I make sure to change my underwear, As agreed upon to keep my wife happy. The image in the full length mirror, by the dark brown dresser, Reflects a naked body that belongs to an old man hiding in my bedroom. For the life of me, I can’t figure out where my six pack abs have taken up residence. I often say just give me one more day in my 19 year old body, Except not the day my dad died. That day I had to cut the umbilical cord strangling my neck. But being 19 I could cry in all sorts of contortions. Now when I cry I pull a muscle. Now when I put on my socks it’s an accomplishment. Now when I drop my Lipitor on the floor I have to decide if it’s worth the effort to bend the tree trunk That used to be my spine. I had a dream where I played basketball again, One of those lucid dreams and I dunked. Ok, I could never dunk.