old bones

when you touch me
It feels like whiskey
on my tongue
at the back of my throat
burning in my gullet
I feel

as if I'm seven again
before all the bad stuff
happens
and my gear box
grinds itself
into a mess
of loose screws

but don't be mistaken
you're a good thing
like Professor Longhair
pounding out a ragged
rhumba
bloody, lived-in elegance

but
it's late
too late
I feel rheumatic
locked in a vice grip
I can hardly
move
let alone thrust

I blame the bastards
lurking in my genes
fooling around
in the graveyard
digging up bones
just to smash them