Retirement

I hear them kids. Their racket, their cock blooded cacophony spilling into the streets. I ain’t so old, but I could retire with what I know. I get it– the future– this future we pretend not to recognize, in an awkward dance around a former acquaintance, as if to do so would gainsay its basic essence as a repackaged form of the past. I see the patterns, the repetition, the inevitable periodic pain, like a boxing glove whirling around on a string– the kids…

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