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It's Past My Bedtime

And when I can't sleep, I write poetry. And it looks like this.


Where will I go
When your legs are no longer the solid, brown tree trunks
Standing side by side?

When your buttocks are no longer a firm
Mountain turn taken at high speed

When your back and your belly no longer sway in parallel
Two sides of the road
But fall all out of proportion to each other, a sprawling superhighway

When your arms are sagging and obsolete
Telephone wires laden with crows

Your head, a dusty tumbleweed
Forgetting where it's been.

By then, my eyesight will be fading
No longer alert to the signs

My reflexes will be less sharp
Good for more gentle turns and fewer surprises

My need to arrive there now
Will change to a need to savor the time I spend traveling

And you will still be my journey
And my destination.

I think we all know who I'm talking about.