A POP SONG
To be honest I was thinking masks.
We’re not getting any younger, aren’t we?
And as fat & dry as that means we
should be so glad & lucky, to not be
so afraid of every kind of minute, every ask.
In the end it’s always a guess,
that there’s usually nothing here
to be jealous of, no queer
revelation that the dull days spent near
this faint flow of decency is our last.
What I’d give to steal
even a sliver of that thin blue line
unmemorable moment, and it was, wasn’t it? You
kept a journal of bad lines through
the summer, so pathetic, so real.
Light dizzy warm lack of breath
reduced after years to just the lack
and this is victory, survival, a crack
in our small shells, like when you were happy I was back
once, and then distant, and then death.