When They Used to Call Me Heartbreaker
Dylan Gilbert

        When they used to call me heartbreaker,
playboy, gigolo,
        I never dreamed one day I’d be called
“Sir” in Grand Central Station by a pretty
college-aged woman asking for directions.

                    When my thick and curly locks were
powerful enough to manhandle the most
determined gel and comb,
                    I never imagined half my head would be
a hair cemetery, yet with life multiplying
like bunnies on my back, shoulders, and
inside my ears.

      When I used to spend a mere 17 minutes
a week working out, but see my muscles
bulging like a junior Adonis,
       I never thought I would be at the gym
six nights a week and still weigh 38 pounds
more than I did in college, a layer of
Jell-O under every inch of skin.

      When I used to hear wet cries of,
“Don’t stop, baby,”
      I never imagined my wife’s repetitive
call would be, “Are you done yet?” in a
voice made of two parts sleepy, two parts
cranky, and one part man.

       When it used to be three seconds to
blast off, 24-7,
        I never envisioned I would be reverting
back to a phrase from my favorite childhood
book: “I think I can, I think I can.”

       When I used glimpse my smooth cheekbone
in the mirror, James Dean in the shadows,
       I never dreamed my eye socket would
look like a topographical map of the Delta
River System. Never thought the bright,
mischievous eyes could look sad and weary,
like they’d maybe seen too much. Never
figured looking at my reflection could be
like gazing at my old man, two years dead
now.
       
                   When I was screeching around curves
like a speed demon in my ’67 Camaro, black
smoky tires, tornadoes in my wheels,
       I never saw myself driving a Subaru
Outback because the National Highway Traffic
Safety Administration gave it the highest
crash ratings.

         When I was casually reading the ant-sized
print from my Marvel comics after Mom
made me turn out the light,
          I never thought I’d be lying in bed
with a chick-novel, Walgreens reading
glasses hanging on the tip of my nose.

                         When I was hanging with the fellas
after school at the hoop courts, when we
were riding six deep in my Camaro, when most
hours of the day were spent among buddies,
         I never dreamed I would be alone most
of the time, and those guys fading from my
memory like the color in a dead man’s cheek.

                      When I was getting humiliated by my
step-dad for unsatisfactory grades and poor
spelling skills,
        I never in my worst nightmare imagined
myself chipping away at my son’s psyche in
the same manner.

          When every new hit on the radio rocked
my world, and half my money went toward new
albums,
           I never thought I’d turn on the radio
and the new songs would sound ugly and
soulless, the lyrics trite, the music
robotic. And hard to believe the last album
I bought really was an album, purchased when
Reagan was president.

                          When I used to get cracked up in
football, but pop out of bed on loose limbs
the next day, when the only doctor I knew
was some old guy on TV,
         I never dreamed a minor sprain could
keep me sidelined for months, and that one
day I’d be lying on my side in St. John’s
Hospital, my proctologist sticking a video
camera up my ass.