Swing Time

We talked of prized cheese

as if cheese was our master

in the great disaster of us,

 

Then mind spent, W(H)INE spent

on dreams only a fool would leave behind

we passed our own tests on our own

as tides that once found us free

brought us to our knees.

 

 

There is a quarter-dance

to a half-scale shuffle as

the vagabond becomes the priest.

 

It's never easy knowing us

worse yet, when we

attempt to convince ourselves 

we aren't like them at all.

 

It's why we love the old TV shows

predictable in a pause.

Those familiar things the mind sees

while other people are talking.

 

For instance, right now

I am thinking about my uncle

and the sweet flight of his golf ball

draped against great green.

 

ajs

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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