timmy
Member
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years have passed--almost 50--
now and still you look back to see,
not really expecting anything
different things look amazingly
similar, besides, no one knows
if you had a wrong number or
a bus ride without paying or laid
Shelly on a golf course at midnight
when you were sixteen she didn’t mind
the “out of bounds-loss of two strokes”
sign had been blown over the night before,
at least she said she didn’t
and there are all these choices when
looking back: who to kill, when to kill,
who not to kill
you even need to see behind
the pictures: who took them, who’s in them
when you’re not
people to forget, people
you didn’t like more beer than Carter’s
got liver pills--one of mother’s old sayings
see what one can see by looking back over
one’s shoulder--in the mirror--under the rug
waiting for the pain to move so long
you finally notice huge chunks of your life
are missing so you make up what’s gone
or you can’t remember the rest years have
passed--almost 50--now and there’s been
vanity wars and ghosts and Sinatra died
but looking back you can see in your heart
you are still free--
but it’s so, so secret you can’t tell anyone
--except in a poem
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