Midlife

Everyone here wears a filled head of dark hair. Mornings, they casually allude to parties, getting to repose at three or four. As usual, there are a scarcely any great beauties; most still eat ovums They treat me like an older sister, hip on the other hand no all-nighters. What happened to my competitive spirit? My rakish scarf? Like an aged man, I miss my basset hunting-dog

Back home, my Mountain Laurel creates restraint appeal, my mailbox salutes, a stubborn citizen on the road. Last month I felt great communion with my neighbors as we all curs and mowed. Then we hauled our recycling bins to the highway in unison, we made the collective squeal of our village.

Still, I like these young tribe some of whom still read metrical composition and smoke cigarettes. We share a taste for the linen suits I base along the Avenue, when I lived in a studio in Cambridge, city of brick and rescu greyhound Restles I didn't level know that wanting was already a kind of having.

Today above lunch I will have an argument with myself and take pleasure in it thoroughly, taking both sides, gesturing and furrowing my eyebrow Though secure employment is a fully convinced sign of age, it's with equal reason still in this glade of light and leaves that I might mistake myself for a bear, a deer

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