Stepping

Stepping high

stooping low

flip flops on

pink toenails

moving slow

reminiscing

sorely missing

things were better

way back then

that’s where I want

to go.

one better life

lots less strife

soon I’m leaving

old man

believing

in a

reborn past

run his colors

up his sailboat mast.

we were roosters

they were hens

way back then

rough cut

men.

here I sit

sack of chips

drowned in beer

death coming near

have no friends

anymore

people think

I’m kinda’

weird…

thanking God

and the

devil

I at

least

don’t

think

I’m

a

queer.

 

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