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The chair retreats back into itself,

Shrinks stupidly, blindly

As you try to gain purchase on it.

Screw it, lie down.

You didn’t realize old age

Didn’t really mean wisdom as much as

Nausea and trouble wiping yourself.

Your kids are calling again

But you’re far away now, in bed.

You wipe the sweat from your forehead

Onto your palms, then the pillow.

Someone is inside your dream

Crushing you into something tiny.

What are they saying? Tell them

To shut up. Silence them

With the crushing weight of years.

Don’t they remember anything?

Won’t they let up?

Don’t they remember

This Bensonhurst dusk

In the sandlots and

The cars honking, the stars

Prssing down to watch

Like an audience of gods?




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