two old ladies
listening to these
two old ladies trade
horror stories about
forgetting shit all
the time
hitting their heads
on cabinets they
forgot to close
falling down while
trying to move too
fast on the carpet
and i'm supposed
to look forward to
the golden years
the dying years
a listless sunday
under sunny
skies
i suppose there
are worse ways
to spend the
dying years
enjoy every
ice cube
i've heard
where you
are going
they don't
have any
on my father's lap pretending
sometimes springsteen
comes on the radio
and i picture myself
on my father's lap
pretending i'm
the one driving
his pickup truck
except i quickly
realize that's not
me on his lap
he never loved me
enough to allow my
imagination to be
free at that age
i turn the dial and
try to find something
else to listen to
all springsteen does
is remind me of a
past that i was never
welcome in and unable
to ever change
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