I called you the Old Man, but I
was always the one in bed
before nine. You've got an
aching back from pragmatic
dreams and antique sympathy for
the Civil War. Old Man, you’re
an idealist capitalizing on a far
too consumed past, I thought you
knew repetition is no means
of production. Old Man, I heard
you when you said “I’ll change if,
I ever get around to it” and I thought
it was the saddest thing this World
has ever whispered. Old Man, your
pockets are pinched, tighter than
an anorexic’s waist, saving up for
a future a century’s past with a
loaf of stale bread. Old Man, you
told me it was only okay to envy
laugh lines and stolen glances, on
drives out West, with sweat, Nature’s
air conditioner. Old Man, I see you
travelling over hills, knowing you've
always got to see whats on the other side;
Old Man, I wish you'd just explore
your own.