Look out kid,
it's an easy skid
from cardboard sliding
down the wild rye and barley
grass of summer days
to a corrugated doorway bed.
The pastures
you once knew
entombed beneath
a home, a park, a parking lot,
some trouble with the magistrates
for sleeping on a heating grate.
The hopes torn off the calendar
remembered in a soft focus gaze
as lazy as a Saturday matinee
seen through the wrong end
of a dime store telescope, evaporate.
The romance of that distant dance,
the hot kiss, entranced,
under harvest-colored crepe,
shimmers on in golden hues
while the week before
is lost in the haze and blur
of interchangeable news reports.
Mr Paige was sage
with his advice,
it's not age that chases us,
but the end of all that was.
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