Retrospective

On the day I was born,
my father caught a fish that weighed more than me.
I ate kumquats off a tree one afternoon without stop
and could never eat another.
I fell once and could not breathe.
The sky swirled; my knees opened on the gravel.
An angel gave me mouth to mouth.
Once, time tapped me on the shoulder,
and I made the mistake of looking back.
I lied some, I stole a couple of things,
I read books on heroes.
I could ride my bike over the whole town,
take every curve and corner,
and not touch the handlebars once.
I never had better goals.
I became a dog, a horse;
I was afraid of the attic,
but I was the stoker of the coal furnace
in the ship of the house.
I know there are people you meet
who have handshakes but no hands,
have smiles but no face.
I could not stay out of woods and fields.
One day, I kissed a girl
and could never go back.