Even Peter punches the clock. Even Peter grows up.
He still dances. He still crows. But now he watches what he eats. He avoids jelly beans and bread. Ice cream gives him gas. He works out five times a week: pushups and squats. Sometimes he grows a beard.
He has an irresistible urge to touch walls whenever he walks past them.
Peter has his habits. They’ve wrapped around him and hardened, ring by ring for one hundred years.
He still begs women for stories, but he takes a break when world news pummels him like a sandstorm.
When allowed, he sleeps with windows open—especially on nights when the moon casts shadows. Peter sleeps on his stomach these days. One hand on his hip and the other pointing North. One foot at his knee, the other pointing South.
Even Peter has to live with his dreams.