One of the great
unheralded joys of late
middle age is the mind-popping
of how many things
I’ve been wrong about,
starting with sex,
my parents,
and the meaning of the word
bruschetta, then gliding on
seamlessly to men,
marriage, and magic
mushrooms. All my firmly
held opinions have loosened
like teeth in receding gums
or pilings that the indifferent sea
has pounded into submission
for centuries.
What a relief
to have been wrong
about gluten-free pasta
and skinny jeans, gender
and white privilege!
I suspect I’ve been wrong
about pretty much everything,
including death,
which will come for everyone
except me.