Poetry

Who cares about them really?
Good for getting around, but
then when you go for
what really matters,
where to do you put the damned thing?
Comes all shiny and new.
Slowly, it gets old and wrinkled.
Faded.
Coffee stained.
I love coffee.
Where did I park my car?
Who cares?

I found it.
Then, I lost it.
Someone else found it I think.
I’m sure they’ve lost it
or will soon.
Where is it?
On the counter?
On the street
just sitting there in the sun?
In someone’s hand?
Did they find what I lost?
If they did,
I bet they lost it by now.

Never too old,
Never too late.
Except at the end.
But, there’s always time
in between.
Then, in between
it’s never too late, ever.
Turn around if you want.
Something new if you want.
Something old if you want.
Old is.
Old always will.
Old before you realize.
Hopefully you never realize.
Goodbye age.