Sunday, April 13, 2014

There is a language I can no longer speak
due to my years on the planet--one would think
that would garner me more privileges 
rather than less. . .alas, my 11-year-old
informs me these words are meant
for the young and hopelessly cool
(I won't give that one up)
of course, they're not really words 
at all, most are mere acronyms 
for those too busy to use 
all of the beautiful words
we have been given--
I accept my fate.  

So much can be accomplished
in a three-hour queue
waiting for a broken ferry--
read the day's mail,
yesterday's too,
write a few replies,
install new wiper blades,
install them again,
properly this time,
then sit back and listen
to the car behind you
remind you
that you're not waiting
fast enough.

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