what is it to be 40 twice the man, you were at twenty? four times the man, you were at ten? is it being wiser and having your means meet the end? finances sured up? with no need, for to be the miser a divorce or some perhaps a strong marriage polyamorous loves to your heart's desire addictions? vices? troubles stifling? death breathing down your neck to the thumping of your heartbeat beads of sweat, gather and run off your chest like your shoes on the concrete you are dying even while you're living and you know one day it'll be your last cause we only get so long and time goes fast a baby is born the next afternoon an old man is buried tomorrow could never come would you ever know it?
When my family and I moved into this house in 1977, Dad was our patriarch. For four decades I have lived in a subdivision that is called Crosby Park. Today I've lived in this subdivision for forty years. I was only five years old when I moved here. When a person lives at a place for that many years, it fits like a glove. This is where I'll live for the rest of my life and it's a place that I love. I'll tell you why my place means more to me than it did just ten years ago. It's because this place is now mine and there's no place like home.
And the farm endured seven fields to forty acres the days of my father saw grass and crops rotate his toiling obsession now spent gave way to a bigger scale
the old house storeyed by one and a half the bedroom where I slept in the shadow of an older brother
the roof of grey slate the peak of my world reached my childhood sky
the overgrown garden the consequence of labours elsewhere the sycamore tree my view of a world outside the patch of monkshood remained where I trapped bees in a jar the fuchsia bush with flowers to pick and **** nectar from within
the old dirt track road the start of a jouney far beyond the realm of a farm and the dreams of a boy