Maybe it was the medicine, or age,
Or privation, or bad relationships.
Maybe if Jessica Biel was here
But I’d be wondering, why is she here?
And trying to remember if she was married or not.
But say I knew her, Jess and I were old friends
And she was single for sure
And in her black scivvies
And it was inexplicably mutual,
Like she had a fetish for tired old men.
For as long as I can remember it would always be yes! yes!
But now it would be a quiet maybe.
It just doesn’t seem to matter much.
They say there are pills for this,
But maybe there shouldn’t be.
Maybe this is what Buddha found
After 49 days under the Bodhi tree
What would he say, handsome, swarthy, blue eyed and 39
If some Bollywood siren came to him.
Wouldn’t he have to say, babe, maybe in another lifetime,
But I’m busy now, sitting and trying not to think.
It’s like you’re at the subway turnstile,
But your pass kicks out, no more entries
And you hear your train rumble by
But you think, I didn’t really need to get on anyway
Climb back up the stairs, into the sunlight
Maybe back home to sit on the balcony,
With a glass of Port, not the seven dollar stuff from upstate New York,
But the good stuff in the fancy bottle.
Are those the choices left to us?