The Price of Age
my bare feet scoot across the
rough floors, shuffling layers of dirt
my toe bumps a piece of glass,
pale blue and crooked at the edges.
i bend to pick it up, hoping it is that chunk of
sea glass you bought me.
do you remember?
you don’t remember much these days.
no no, it’s not that you don’t remember,
more that you choose to look at
our history through scratched glasses, perched
precariously on a broken nose.
i see you polishing your glasses sometimes,
and i wonder,
why don’t you buff the scratches off, or
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