Out of body

They’re quarreling for no reason. Look at them young and naive, rubbing at their knuckles as if hard times have overstayed their welcome. They have no sense.

Oh, I think that I do though. No, I know that I do. I know that next year can feel the same as the one before. The good times can dance around us until those times make us dizzy and upset that there’s now a mess all over the floor. We push our belly laughs back into the storm cellar and push mighty hard for the closet door to stay closed. Yet, I suppose if you’re gonna act right and do as I say, I’ll retreat back to pushing the dollar store witch broom across the floor. The bristles pick up dust balls that are trapped between each straw like bristle. The next pile of trash I make on the floor won’t catch on the bristles as well as it did the first time. Life is like that.
I ought to stop throwing my fishing pole-line into the murky lake, pulling out shoes and shit. I never really did learn how to fish but I know what it entails.
A rod
A line
Worms
Waiting
A sturdy chair
An old boat from one of the older fellas who can teach detailed things with their eyes closed
And a whole lot of waiting

You see them kids. When we was young, I’d parents switch us if we talked back.

We grab-bagged what felt good and stuffed it down our shirts. Sometimes we had it in one of our hands that was behind our back. We use to do this when we were real little trying to steal snacks we weren’t supposed to have before lunch or dinner. Tiptoeing we prided ourselves how stealthy we were but they knew. Sometimes the bag was left open or the milk jug had moved slightly to the left, oh they knew.

You’re not that old yet.

Oh, I do remember how I am young but will not continue to stay young. Oh, how the summer humidity starts to get to one and instead of fidgeting, we let out exasperated sighs. Oh, I am quarreling with what I have learned and what I have or haven’t done. Oh, I am out of body.

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