On a High Wire

Sixteen, wiping up the dirt of the streets
like a sponge, who becomes it.
Nineteen, wiping up the spills on the coffee counter,
with a sponge and a bleach bucket.
Twenty-one, wiping up the dirtbags from the bar,
with a spongey tongue and an attitude.
Twenty-four, washing hands of the chemicals,
sponge mind, springs back through fortitude…
Can’t or won’t absorb too much,
in standing water, knee high in the muck.
Running away leaves you stuck in place;
the angst will stay there waiting.
Without pain, we’d learn nothing,
at field capacity, only few are growing.