Trees

Sometimes at night I think about the road I’m on,

It feels so old from time to time. It’s mine to take,

and so I ride.

I like to keep it wild my mind a roller coast-

er kind. It’s not for everyone I find.

And so I write.

The years do pass, new wrinkles here and I’ll go white.

A day does not go past where I find I

am older. Nice.

And do you think about the day when you can see

your parents play? See shining round the grate as if

you never left?

Because you know I do. And think about mine too.

About the day that they will see no role; but me

for me for me.