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It’s another pep talk night. HP is getting great at them. He’s really improving. I’ll just have to keep providing him chances to test his skills. I nearly quit this poem practice tonight, and I even really considered pretending technical difficulties so that I couldn’t do it.  It just feels crumby to get home so late at night without a poem in my brain and to have the stress of doing it taunting me near to panic. Which is nuts. Because it’s a poem blog. Not geopolitics or the environment or equality or anything that actually deserves panic. Truth be told, I just didn’t want to do it. But, the HP said some good stuff, like “you have to do it because without the challenge you won’t do it at all“. Which is true. And now I do feel better, now that I’m doing it, even though I still don’t know what to write tonight.

Another late night on the island of misfit toys, and boy, I did not have very much fun at work tonight. I did come up with one line, “Youth is annoying as hell sometimes”, don’t know if I have it in me to shape a poem around it though. I guess I gotta try, though, because it’s all I’ve got for today.

Youth is Annoying as Hell

When I am old, I they will look at me like an hour,

to ignore or spend carelessly.

When my hand, a ghoulish and uncanny fancy to them with its star map of spots and years,

reaches out, they will take it, but oh so gently, afraid of breaking ancient bones.

They will assume they have to shout.

When my back curves and shuffles, the respect will be cloying,

the deference irksome.

They will think I envy them, and I’ll chortle at that on my Sunday constitutional,

the spring colors made more brilliant and abstract by cataract,

and I’ll mutter to them in my loud breath,

“Youth is annoying as hell sometimes.”

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There was more to this I wanted to address. Like how, as annoying as  the teens were to me tonight, I bet they are not annoying to the very old. I bet the very old are just as intrigued by the young as the the young are somewhat frightened of the very old. There’s something of the uncanny in it, the recognition between youths and the aged. I want to explore that more. Some other night. Exhausted. Happy Sunday!

 

 

 

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