sporadic life crisis

I’ve always hated the term “mid-life crisis.”

every day springs a new disaster upon me.

I lost my “last” pack of cigarettes yesterday.

you know, that pack you swear will be your last

because this time you’re actually quitting

because this time you’re serious about your health?

your lungs are getting weaker and the doctor keeps

muttering something about emphysema.

there was a fifth of whiskey in the fridge last night.

Jim Beam was waiting for me to return

but his deep southern drawl no longer calls my name.

I guess he couldn’t wait any longer for a woman like me,

just placed his bourbon brown hand in that of another.

today I am struck by the realization that

I am growing to be more like my mother.

I’ve got eyes in the back of my head now

and I can see the look of guilt upon his face

after he retaliates, “I am a new man.”

New men still kiss inappropriate women.

and tomorrow I wonder if I will wake up at the age of forty?

what “mid-life crisis” will hit me then?

maybe I don’t get published,

or there will be a student snoring loudly

among giggles of disrespect in my class,

husband could leave me for his younger

bodacious secretary,

I figure my daughter will inevitably become pregnant

or maybe it will be my son’s girlfriend, now barren,

handing me the bill to Planned Parenthood,

and I,

I will find myself jumping from the safe compartment of an airplane.