(after an hour of watching talk shows)

I don’t want to be thirty-three,
no way, no how,
the milk without the cow,
the weed, the need,
the seed of greed.

Thirty?
Possibly, even that’s too much
for me.  But you,  you’ll do fine,
it’s true. Uncontained by lines
or boxes, you drain the glass,
fill it again,

Never mind the dribble spilling
from your chin.  This is love
and this
is war.
I can’t tell the difference
anymore.

 

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