We Fall Apart On Weekends

We Fall Apart On Weekends

Mother Nature should pay for her evil ways.

Fuck this oppressive wind, forever blowing,

forever initiating contact with my skin, without asking, at its whim.

Violating me: daring me to do something different.

From a bench in Dickinson Square Park with Amy sitting next to me- I count:

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven cars flying by; off to somewhere better than here…

Let’s face it: the fireworks don’t work (the love is gone) and I’ve been fired

and replaced through automation and better industrial design,

which is a process that’s a sign of the times.

Here’s to simple rhyme schemes and the children playing on the playground equipment

in the distance that’s rusted and barely works anymore either.

Let’s toast to NEVER worrying about the future

and never ever about the past,

with past sins no longer acting like wet blankets that you can’t just throw off…

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