Peter Pan Buys a Porsche

He called it his own renaissance -

not a crisis -

as if flinging 1990s cologne on a midlife bonfire

was anything but arson.

He bought the convertible

to escape conversations with himself,

dropped the top

but never opened up.

Called it reinvention,

but it was just regression—

a man-child in polarized sunglasses

revving avoidance at red lights.

Started journaling with borrowed quotes

from Byron and Whitman

that he didn't even understand.

Tattooed a compass on his wrist

still wandered,

still lost

still north-less

Thought once about therapy

but ghosted the call to schedule the session

muttered, "healing's for women,"

to no one

but the mirror

and bought an espresso machine

that he can't use without consulting

a Youtube video.

He thought crisis meant reinvention,

but really,

it’s just growing old

without ever growing up.

He mistook silence for serenity.

confused leaving for arriving.

When the car finally broke down,

in a cul-de-sac of his own creation

he sat inside

until the leather scorched him,

staring at the glove box -

No introspection, just projection.

No self-work, just self-worth inflated

like a waterbed from the 70s

that sprung a leak at 3am.

and still, he blamed the engine.