The Year We Went Without Retiring
The light was so entitled and the air so inflated and full of itself, you might have thought we were in Florida or back at the Tri-City Drive-in off 495 where we would watch adult flicks and you would get sick in the tall grass from the lack of kissing or a soundtrack. Give me a few weeks, you would tell me. To freshen myself up. And to listen to the surf as it uses all its talents to frustrate your efforts to file it away. Steal all the life out of it. And you’d return to earth. With less the frustration and rust. And more this new trust in e-lending. Safe to say, there’s not a lot of land left. And what little there is, our latest sources cannot help but scold those of us too old to download half of it, is trying its hand at shell art. And training the sky to, if not rain, appear tearful. You like it here for the waffles, free WIFI whatever the fuck that is. And I like it here for how the windows won’t dine on my flaws. Or think awful of me for fitting my water with something a bit stiffer, liquor-like. Is it my age or are the flags getting more violent, wanting to have at me? Even the sky asking if that’s all I got for love. And that dove, with its sensitive stare, referring us to the line in our agreement where we tackle these kinds of acts, fees so hidden they’re all in some gamer’s imagination. In the meantime, our tastes can not only be seen to but be rated. By teenaged sages and child star artistes. All the self-dubbed shut-ins fluent in nonsense, effect. And who’ll volunteer to air out our wet-sheeted fantasies, dread. Tweet you an earful. If truth is even a thing to be told, dear. And you have the one ear left to dangle it.
