Our Salad Days never existed,
just wilted. a recollection of weeds and rose-colored dressing.
We never won the game, caught the fish,
we never kissed the girl.
We relive the lies of our earlier lies.
Our music was not a SWeet wine.
All music is salt and vinegar on another's tongue,
and our movies weren't brilliant,
"Bernstein not Berenstain!"
We'll pell-mell preach until Apocalypse.
And the death of Mandela, thirty years before his death,
is crossed out on our calendars in watermelon marker.
It's all in our journals,
no longer living.
Adrift in an Infobahn Boneyard
We toss our Salad Days
in a self-woven bowl,
that we serve on the side,
with all our favorite fixings.
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