GETTING TO BE AN OLD BASTARD
C Ra McGuirt
she's 18
achingly elven.
her eyes are edged
with emerald,
her laughter
not unkind
at my idiot
poetry.
today,
she called
for nothing,
other than to ask
if i'd like to come
to a club tonight
to see the band of a
friend of a friend
with some of her
other friends.
'they start playing
around midnight, &
of course we'll
get fucked up
before...'
i declined
with authentic sorrow,
born of cautious maturity,
or an appalling lack
of balls,
but these days,
just the fact she called
was thrill enough
for me.
