Double parked under an old oak tree.
Wondering about the fading future.
Hoping for the past, redoing my youth.
Through the questions of my child.
I have no desire to visit yesterland.
Nor any urgency to meet the tomorrowville.
I’d rather los present last ten years.
And perhaps Peter Pan the rest.
But I have a way of losing track of time.
Look at all the lonely people.
I used to be one of them.
Singing sad songs on sad afternoons.
Missing the moon's magic.
It was all right in front of me.
Lonely people, like me.
Come from the forest for the trees.
And either grow or get chopped down.
We get lost forever or get found for now.
Because it never ends, does it, dear reader?