I Strain To Hear, But My Old

I'm Truly Grateful For My Microwave, Which Allows Me To Easily Clarify Butter, Steam Vegetables, And - When I Am Really Lazy - Feed My Three Kids In Less Than Five Minutes.

Then I Lie Down On The Horse Blanket And Drift Into A Dream About Marlena That Will Probably Cost Me My Soul.

I Am Further Back, Surrounded On All Sides By Wailing Men, Their Faces Shiny With Tears. Uncle Al Promised Three Dollars And A Bottle Of Canadian Whiskey To The Man Who Puts On The Best Show. You've Never Seen Such Grief-- Even The Dogs Were Howling.

My Platitudes Don't Hold Their Interest And I Can Hardly Blame Them For That. My Real Stories Are All Out Of Date. So What If I Can Speak Firsthand About The Spanish Flu, The Advent Of The Automobile, World Wars, Cold Wars, Guerrilla Wars, And Sputnik — That's All Ancient History Now. But What Else Do I Have To Offer? Nothing Happens To Me Anymore. That's The Reality Of Getting Old, And I Guess That's Really The Crux Of The Matter. I'm Not Ready To Be Old Yet.

I Roll Onto My Side And Stare Out The Venetian Blinds At The Blue Sky Beyond. After A Few Minutes I'm Lulled Into A Sort Of Peace. The Sky, The Sky--same As It Always Was.