Storywriter
How old do I have to be to write a story about an old couple, driving down that same lane fifty years on sharing glances, acknowledged or unacknowledged How old do I have to be to write a story about young love to have experienced it, or to have long lived it How old do I have to be to write about a place on a map, about the concrete pavements, the stone-age burials the spears, swords and guns rewriting invisible borders How old do I have to be to write about people the child with his phone and the child with broken teeth How old do I have to be to write on what I’ve learned, on the larval life, the metamorphosed adult, the old sod the teachings of a cat, the tick bites and love bites How old do I have to be to write about the things I didn’t do right after the failures or after digging through their remains How old do I have to be to write on the perfect sunsets, those timeless longings, thoughtless meanderings from city streets, the seash