A Poem and A Question

I wrote this poem. I have no illusions that it's actually good, but the sentiments that poured out surprised me a little.

I folded socks today.
And as I did the dishes,
I remembered when I wrote verses
All about desire and the supernova of my feelings.
My insides haven’t changed, and as I did the dishes,
My belly churned with violence.
My skin prickled Bacchic all over,
While my hands folded socks.

Think this signals a midlife crisis?