How are you now

the age of your college teacher when she
                 was about to retire? Strange  
word, that: retire, as if to get spent,
       exhausted all over again, but good; 
from whatever exertions caused you
                 to tire in the first place.
As in second wind, perhaps? or as in
       those kinds of physical activity 
that increase the height of derivable
                 pleasure the more you sweat
and pant? A sheen breaks out over your fore-
       head, down your back; all your little valleys 
and the fireworks in the sky. I used to quip:
                 if we're going to die, we might 
as well die of pleasure. I'd say it again
       even now, though some think the store of 
the world's true remaining pleasures is dwindling 
                 by the minute, maybe even by the second. 
You wonder what tidbit remains that hasn't been  
       colonized; or what the ultra rich tech bro
was thinking when he first decided he would suck out 
                 his son's plasma, believing it will keep 
him young forever. Then there's a celebrity who uses 
       "medical leeches" to clean her blood. How
could you bear to drink powdered shakes for the rest
                 of your life? You swoon at the slightest 
thing— like when, at the Greek festival, a vendor hands you 
        a toothpick dipped in honey from the sap of fir 
trees. The note it carries says not only flowers, not only  
                nectar but a warm wood can open in your mouth.