by Katherine M. Gotthardt

I wrote this poem
because I saw defenestration
in a WWII detective novel
and had to look it up.
That’s after thinking
“I’d love to toss him out the window,”
then remembered the old joke about
tossing a watch to see time fly.
It’s no one liner, but timing –
o timing is a belt we loosen
as we age. See, we see
things, connect things,
think about things like donuts
and fish bait and carburetors
all in the same slide,
some weird PowerPoint
that misses the point,
yet we keep presenting,
opening the theme wider,
trying to explain why,
all while the clock is ticking.

Tighten it up a bit.
We used to be
able to plan better,
things like outings and orgasms.
But now, we stop at sketchy minimarts,
frown suspiciously at the toilet
before taking that fifth leak,
and wonder if crabs on the seat
is a myth momma told us
when she taught us to hover.
And orgasm, well, we won’t go there.
Big pharma has done it for us
(though if I were a man
with a four-hour erection,
I’d definitely take a selfie in the ER).

But alas, I digress, regress,
slip into the scatological and sexual
underworld, grey matter come undone.
That’s what happens after a while.
Don’t let anyone kid you.
You give in and let more of it out
when you’re older.
And you think it might be time.
Boy, that cuckoo clock is loud.