Second-hand Derivative

I don’t miss those days
but some nights, when I am laid out flat
under the weather, and covered

by a thin sheet of sifted clouds
and the moonlight slips through
the señorita curtains
almost unnoticed:

I think back to the time when
I’d think back to the time

when the summer meant no less
than a solstice spent
running down the run-down block
and up again, from the top: the third act
of our Cowboy and Indian play
chock-full of tricks and treaties
until the Spaghetti Western sun
would send us all home
as redskins

in an epoch of reverie
the mistakes are always obvious
like the specs on the blue-sky blue-print
of the hippie architect
pitching us another
over-budget utopia

yes, there are parts of life
I too prefer to forget
but then again:

I think back to the time when
I’d think back to the time

when I was convinced
of the triumph of the demos
of the primacy of tomorrow
of the fallacy of fate

I don’t miss those days
but some nights, when I am laid out flat
under the weather, and covered

I get tangled in a second-order sorrow
caught in the longing for a longing
in the loss of a loss


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