Growing Old

What time again?
The play?
“I’ll stay out of your way and let go
Of my propensity for critique”, I say.

Opening at seven and my scene around
Eight. “Dammit I hate having to
Worry, my love”
Of course, she says with dismay.

Another drink then, but already
Poured.
“Be careful love, they’ll pick
You off the floor.”

“Remember New Orleans, right?
What a scene your caused
That awful night!”
You never recalled, what’s more.

“Seven for sure, and I’ll be
Sober, unless of course
I’m left to wander prior”,
I said without remorse.

“Then just say eight and be
Contrite for once!” she
Barked.
Another drink for this remark,

I poured and waited.
True enough she baited,
But I more clever, held,
For silence never satiated,

At last she met my gaze,
Perhaps more drunken glaze,
“Your growing old you prince,
But in the shadows of your age,

I cannot help but stand”,
Then reaching out she took my hand
And held it, longing.
“Eight then,” I could only stand

To manage my reply,
Daring not to meet her eye,
“Eight and I’ll be clapping!”
Eight would not be happening.

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About Pitboss14

Cosmic surfer of paradoxes.
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