Losing Neverland

Along my once smooth, boyish face,

coarse stubble grows.

Neverland has come and gone,

and now the only time I fly

is when the square of paper

imprinted with fairy wings

dissolves on my tongue.

The second shot’s to my right,

I drink straight on ‘til morning.

Peter Pan has grown up,

and old Pete downs a glass of whiskey,

seeing Wendy Darling in

every face that passes.