Reading An Obituary, Missing the Bus

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I have fewer secrets

The older I get.

Fewer, but choicer, meatier, damning.

Though I may be confusing it all.

 

Age tends to do that.

We acquiesce to Age like a bully.

Meekly, wanting to sleep in on a school day

For fear of running into him on the playground

 

By the swings or teeter-totter yet

Off to school we go daily building lives

Best we can If we’re that fortunate.

Still Life kicks our ass when it wants.

 

People can change but most don’t.

They try to stay young by keeping secrets

That can’t wait be told anyway

And simply disappear with their telling.

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