I miss the good old forklifts,
The kind that steer from the rear
And reek of liquid propane.
I miss being good at something
Small to the rest of the world,
But big in my microreality.
I do not miss the swelter
Of hot-tempered youth
Where every twinge of pain
Means the world's all wrong again,
Irretrievably dreadful,Like dying on the first day of summer.