Looking around there’s nothing that means anything. Not a shadow
thrown by a lamp, or the look on my face reflected back from the
polished sliding glass doors as I smell the crap from the litter box.
I’m wearing out. Knees, wrinkled face… arthritic and old. And
everything has no more meaning than all the yesterdays mixed together
and poured over chipped ice, sucked up by children, and pissed into
diapers, which will be thrown out into the trash in the rain.
It’s who I am. It’s enough.
deuce coupe 