Long ago,
before the first chin hair,
before the first pimple,
before all the stress.
Sitting in artificial sand,
I thought about the future,
reaching a glimpse
of brightness into a fantastic future.
For Christ sake I wanted to be a trash truck driver.
I sat and dreamt about the life beyond my years.
Now that sand pit is a stone curb
were I pan the gutter for specks of
humanity.

I shouldn't have to think in my
years of youth and wonder:
Wether I should leave this world to die,
Or perish with it all.