A couple whiskeys in, and I'm reviewing
Family pictures, checking out my dad --
Clean-shaven (more or less) -- and me debuting
On his lap, blushing, happy, blond (I had,
As you'd expect, some baby fat), and every-
-one's so young -- baby-faces, four years less
Than I have now. Facebook breaks my reverie
With chat requests, posts, likes, and comments; yes,
I click "accept," a constant intercourse
Between "what was" and "what will be" -- events
And pictures tagged with names without remorse.
I share it, tag it -- I ain't got the sense
To change my page to private yet, so friends
Can comment, tagging it with whos and whens.
1 comment:
Tipsy poetry.
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