For me
if you believe in averages
Seventeen Summers
is all that remains
Less Summers than
fingers and toes
With sixty Summers
in the rear view
the road in front of you
feels a lot shorter,
your hearing begins to fade
but your breathing
becomes more audible
and you can’t shake free
from the loose and crinkly
skin on your neck
When you say out loud
“Seventeen Summers”
the finite nature of it
settles in
and Ms. Mortality
with her toothy grin
and dead eyes
waves at you
from the shore
With only
Seventeen Summers left
dilly-dallying
feels like a crime
and reminiscing
seems irresponsible
I should be wringing
every ounce of life
out of every minute
of every day
of my Seventeen Summers
because
the last thing you want to feel
in your Seventeenth Autumn
is regret
bendingtheneedle 