Every year I get older
And it’s so frustrating
To be too young to talk

About getting old.  I used to drive everyday
To the Starbucks on the far end of town and order
A tall mocha, skim milk with whip cream.  The barista practically

Had it made before I walked in the door.
I would sit in the corner, not drinking, just watching.
Not wanting to stay, but having nowhere in particular

To go.  I measured my days in coffee cups and disposable paper sleeves
I could have become a clock maker and let the hours drip by
One by one into tiny espresso cups.

But fuck it, I’d rather be a poet instead.

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