the days are getting longer

the days are getting longer now

Once you have written 

enough to be considered

a writer

you’re bound 

to begin 

to repeat yourself,

take Bukowski,

he talked about the race track 

more than anything else,

or the country musician

that became a star

after learning 

to sing about the audience 

instead of 

where he came from.

If I’m alone,

and it’s quiet,

I’ll wonder where you are,

with family

we don’t get a fresh start,

but if a prayer 

becomes less about what we want

and more about forgiveness 

then we’re closer to the heart.

“It’s like 

who do we 

think we are?”

A question for me,

but the answer 

was meant for you. 

A dime a dozen

leaves two leftover

and I can’t think

of a synonym 

for happy.

Does money 

matter 

when what you’re doing

makes 

us sad?

Too bad

childhood didn’t last,

and the time 

in which to change

has passed,

I look around

and ask the waiter

for a fresh pint glass.

“I never liked 

getting fucked up,”

I say.

“I just work 

for a little buzz

to put the anxiety 

at bay.” 

I see

the wheels spinning

inside your head;

thinking before I talk again 

I wonder if you’re content with life

or if it’s just that 

you’ve realized how hard it is to try. 

It’s not about 

most people,

them, they, or those over there,

it’s about you and me,

how we’re going to treat each other,

and who we are going to be.

If age

brings wisdom,

then why 

are all the old men 

afraid to try?

A young father walks by 

with two children at his side.

“Do you remember Disneyworld?”

“No.”

“How old are you?”

“Almost thirty-three.”

“When I was that age

your sister would have been five,”

he said.

“We should see 

if she

remembers.”