Light ventilation.

Afraid of a tail wind prevailing
Too swiftly and leaving me in need
Of another sail, as I’m unable to rely upon
The one already unfurled because it’s
Been holed too many times.

Drinking at forty with the throat
Of an eighty year old due to consuming
Twice my weight in whisky, and
With the penmanship to prove it.

Transferring too much weight from
My back to my shoulders than is necessary
To feel the desired effect, and still with
Knees unbent and other bones having
To hold my rig together.

Feeding the antipathy not quite as
Fast as righteous men warn us against,
But still fleet enough to earn their dislike,
Although I thought I’d avoided it.

Close, but not breath bearing down
My neck, until I least expected it, when
My lungs were full of water on the side of
Pools I ought to have avoided, and brought back
Into the arms of everything I tried to hoop
Jump through.