Introducing a new series of poems by Julian Matthews. Julian is a writer and Pushcart-nominated poet published in The American Journal of Poetry, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Borderless Journal, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Dream Catcher, Live Encounters Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and The New Verse News, among others. He is a mixed-race minority from Malaysia and lived in Ipoh for seven years. Currently based in Petaling Jaya, he is a media trainer and consultant for senior management of multinationals on Effective Media Relations, Social Media and Crisis Communications. He was formerly a journalist with The Star and Nikkei Business Publications Inc
Link: https://linktr.ee/julianmatthews
By Julian Matthews
They say, age is catching up. I did not know Mr Age was a runner. Or that he was behind me and I was in a race with him. I might have been better prepared.
If I let him bypass me, will I stay frozen in time? Or will I reverse instead like Benjamin Button and watch Mr Age’s scrawny frame disappear over the hill?
Once, I was about to take part in a 10km race, in the wee hours of the morning. The 21km runners had been flagged off an hour earlier. The organizers were just about to set up the counters at the finishing line for the returning half-marathoners, when a rake-thin runner showed up. He hardly looked like he broke a sweat. It was a walk in the park, literally for him. And yes, he was Kenyan. Or Ethiopian.
When I was young, my mother always insisted I finish my vegetables because the children in Africa were starving. I am glad I did my part. Because somehow they are here, in this part of the world, alive and kicking and beating Mr Age.
I don’t think my Mr Age has the same genetic predisposition, high altitude training or complex carbs and high-fiber diet. He never had to walk to school, or run to survive at an early age.
He took the school bus, like me, ate too much sweets, and only had to outrun the school bully – scruffy Ah Fatt, who waddled, and I was told later, ended up as a drug dealer. He died young in jail. I guess age caught up with him sooner than expected. His Mr Age must have been fitter than mine.
I hope to stay ahead of my Mr Age, but only just. If you see me looking over my shoulder, every now and then, it’s because I am worried he’s gaining on me.
But then again, if I spot him huffing and puffing near me, I may greet him, pull up a chair and offer him some tea. It’s the least I can do, given his loyal following all these years.
We’ll chat just like old friends, before I send him on his way. I hope Mr Age will be grateful for the catch-up.
First published in “Words on the Wire 2” anthology of the Chapter One writers group, edited by Sue Hill and Bob Walton of The Write Box and Super Culture, Britain.
