I've spent my life. Not well or wisely. Not
with any sense of having really spent it.
I think I sort of hoped I'd only lent it,
but what is left me turns out all I've got,
and all turns rapidly to nothing more.
I can't be trusted with the simplest task.
I never learnt my tables, never will.
I don't remember birthdays. Always spill
your darkest secrets—no one has to ask.
Can't bat; can't bowl; can't throw; and can't keep score.
When I review my life, there's nothing there.
Time used me to confirm that it could pass.
I was a brief disturbance of the air,
a greasy smear left on the mirror glass.