Pouring drinks for teenagers twice her age.
Popping popcorn, whispers they don’t eat it right.
Movie reels project lifetimes some will never see
in an empty room, seated, slanted floor
she wonders what she’ll be.
Big dreams of beaches and racing,
building, calm, nothing phasing.
Devastating.
Concentrating.
Doing just what she needs.
Could be chance.
Could happen for a reason.
Come undone just after we dance,
move ahead, the world moves out from under us.
I believe these roads wind back together.
Pouring drinks for rich people who don’t age.
Frying old knives, mutters hope I made that right.
Plastic homes projecting lives that aren’t for him
on a rubber mat, greasy-grimy shoes
he looks up growing fins.
Wide dreams of writing and laughter,
music, joy, what we’re after.
Life, move faster.
Doesn’t matter.
There’s just one thing I need.
These roads wind back together.
Child, you’re fine.
Behind that darkness sleeps so much bright.
Shake it up, wake it up, winding together.
Carried so much weight, carry so much light.
I believe these wind back together.
this is your life chuck johnson 