TO ALL THE PEOPLE WE GREW OLD WITH
There was a time when we would blossom
just because it was our time,
one day and night and then the next.
The sun would shine.
Our witnesses were there,
nodding their approval,
wanting to believe in us.
They're called contemporaries —
I know now what that means,
not with my dictionary in hand,
not with my low IQ,
but with each fiber of my being.
Elvis: gone, George Michael: gone, Roger Moore
Oh bless his soul, Gene Wilder.
Grandma, Mamma, girlfriends maybe, humping neighbor.
Probably me. All gone, and Mongo too.
Gone. It's hard to fathom what that even means.
Oh I for one won't care 100 years from now
what the fuss was all about:
"Go to school and get good grades."
(What a waste of time if living is your thing.)
"Listen to your parents. They know what's best."
(They don't. They wanted Minnie MEs.)
"Find a job and build one heck of a career!"
(And tunnel vision is a thing.)
I swear I'm not impressed if you're a king or David Beckham.
But if you were kind to me, whether rich or poor,
I'll miss you dearly when I'm walking through that door.
* * *