If I could be just seven years younger…
just seven more disposable years
would be perfect.
She’s eight years younger
and let’s me know from time to time
things around my house or
things I wear
that she likes,
in a you’re really getting on in years kind of way.
She tells me so I know I still matter.
I feint surprise when she does.
Oh wow thanks.
Inside, way down deep inside
I could the years.
I sit like a fat, sweating old man
with my hair and money
in a grotto down deep in the ocean.
No one can hear me counting here.
She can’t, I like to think.
Down here I count how many
years I have left.
Plink, plink, plink.
I stack my years like coins.
Eight more would be perfect.
No nine, I think again
in the dark.