Beth & Martha

The two old women behind me talk as if they know everything.
Maybe they do.
They know more than me.
They are overweight, saggy, and wrinkly.
They know, have known, more about love,
more about loss, more about pain,
more about *******, more about resentment, more about life.
But, of course, all there is to show for these are wrinkles.
I don't know their names, probably Beth and Martha.
What's the difference between a wrinkle and a roll?
I suppose it is where you choose to take your wrinkles
and where you take your rolls.
I hope that time takes them both the **** away from me.
They argue and gossip
as they probably have for the last six decades.
I think about them as I smoke cigarettes.
The tragedy of life seems to be living long enough
to regret having lived that long.
Maybe others don't regret living, maybe that's just me.
Being too old to walk or **** does not appeal to me.
A Dorian lifestyle seems to hold a more positive opportunity.

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