Too many years unblinking

in TV's glow. Eyes bloodshot,

unwilling to see

the faded wooden fence posts

I passed everyday, which told

how our lives can't be

straightened, repainted,

only lived until we stare at the ceiling

one last time, waiting

for an undertaker to fix us (as much

as anyone can).Own a bigger television

now, while my childhood home sold.

Windows replaced, so no one would think

ghosts haunted the room, where I killed

and re-killed toy soldiers,

rhymed “love” with “dove”

(thought it gave greater meaning

to kisses that tasted of yellowed teeth,

justified being together every minute

in those days that are always too short,

afraid of loneliness almost as much

as greying hair),

believing the pain of being

told “no” worse than watching

my feet move, pretending

every answer was “yes.”