I chanced upon the Fountain of Youth
One tepid February in Burlington, Vermont.
Of course
when I say “chanced upon”, I mean
My head was thrust, contrary to typical practice
Upside down into the toilet
of some restaurant on St. Paul Street and,
As hinted by the passive language,
VERY MUCH
against my will.
The journey was neither perilous nor epic, only
humiliating.
My guides were not headdressed locals,
rather
Toga’d, aspiring economists.
They took photographs,
spread them among the fraternities
as documentation of my damning discovery.
True, I tramped home that evening,
sopping wet and disgraced
And through college, dull and friendless.
But I stand now in this graveyard
A freckly nineteen year-old, aged ninety
More than willing to
Cackle hoarsely
At their bones.