she asks, hand on my hand,
as i sit
and cry
on the front steps.
what is it that troubles you?
from the outside
looking in, you
lack nothing,
what's wrong with you?
nothing,
i tell her, nothing at all.
it's just a mid
life crisis of some sort.
that's all.
really, don't worry yourself
about me.
which makes her laugh,
as she wipes away my tears,
then says,
do you really believe you're
going to live
until you're a hundred
and fifty?
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