Wonderyears

My brain atrophies

And still I wait

As if someone will

Come carriage me off

The curvature of the planet

And bestow upon me gifts

I have no title to.

I walk between the aisles

Quietly admiring the mass of produce

Bared fruits eagerly poised

Waiting to drive home in the back seat

To be manipulated and munched

And hastily shoved into lunchboxes

While the coffee smugly percolates

But the engrossed bins prove

Too bountiful to harvest—

My appetite no longer yearns

For the gifts at its feet.

I swear not only did the price go up

But the loaf got smaller

That’s all dreams turn out to be

An amalgam of juxtapositions

So we stand on both sides of the river

While trying to swim against the current

And we know

It’s much too late to still be awake

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