Tim Kahl Damn I Bruise Damn I bruise like a top shelf peach. A sickly yellow purple gray patch announces itself on my bicep and thigh just from hauling a mini-fridge down a flight of stairs. I hugged it too tight and it hugged back. I feel like an old man on a strict diet of prunes, all clogged up and sputtering into some ridiculous predicament that will happen later this week. Like once in a while when you hear a guy in the stalls two doors down who sounds like an outboard motor starting up. You want to say, Hey, Johnny Thunderclap, get a hold of yourself. You don't always have to rush into the drama of a gale force. Still the guy continues to press his vehemence. And I'm thinking of the fence falling down on the back of my lot. When is there going to be the energy for that? Right after I watch the All-American kid at third base come up to bat on TV? Hell, I have underwear that's as old as him. It settles into its role at the bottom of the drawer, waiting for the elastic on all the new guys to give out. My wife tells me I should get rid of things I don't use anymore. She understands how the middle class works. I've seen the unkempt and the snarled get thrown to the wolves. There they are at the end of the offramp holding up a tattered sign that says, I won't lie. I need to get drunk. Suddenly I realize I need to get old, but don't make me hold up a goddamned sign. Don't discolor my hide or make my veins bulge or let my joints become gnarled. I won't sign off on that deal unless . . .what's that? You're saying it's non-negotiable? I have to stay this way until I completely crap out? What if I overexert myself once again? Will I get some sort of honorable mention? Probably not. In that case, I will make my way to the last resort, where I can ride my motorboat out to the middle of the lake and float and drift like a piece of cast-off bait in the chop.