The first time that I did "it", I was fourteen.
Looking back art the seven year old I had been, filled me with shame.
When I looked toward the twenty-oneyear old I would become,
I was consumed by excited anticipation. The things that I would do!


The next time that I remember doing "it", I was thirty.
Reviewiing the fifteen-year old created a poignant sadness.
For I saw, that he had not realised even one of his childhood dreams
The prospect for the forty-five year old, filled me with dread.

The last time that I did "it", I was fifty.
The twenty-five year-old that I recalled was a stranger who fired me with anger.
How could he have so aimlesly frittered his life away? How did he let it all go?
The best that could be anticipated for the seventy-five year old; was a corpse

I shall never do it again.