The Rest of My Life

seriously, who asks that question of anyone?

 

The professor and I sat in his office

Sketching my future on a piece of scrap paper.

It would have been nice to have the sun pour in

But the blinds were pulled down

And a computer monitor was the only source of light

In his prison cell masquerading as an office.

He raised his bald head, so I could look in his spectacled eyes

The mouth around his grey beard formed the question

No twenty-something American male should be asked…

“What do you want to do with the rest of your life?”

What would he say if I told him the truth?

 

I want to f**k Rebecca!

To one day see her belly grow

As her breasts sag down to meet it.

I want to count the years I’ve loved her

By the wrinkles on her face.

Hold her hair back when she vomits

And kiss her before she brushes her teeth.

Find out what it’s like to drive three hours at 2 A.M.

To get her the right kind of chocolate ice cream.

Hold her hand as she pops out little versions of us.

Have her say “I love you”

When my dick hangs lifeless between my thighs.  

 

I don’t want to hang myself with a necktie

To scramble for a rotten piece of cheese

In the middle of a cardboard maze.

Or drive three hours so I can

Sit at a desk

Where I exchange a piece of God’s gift

For Monopoly money.

Have the most exciting part of my week

Be the primetime line up on Thursday night.

To die in a worn out recliner

Instead of on the dusty streets

Of Dodge City.

 

My mind screamed these thoughts in silence

But all my lips could mutter was

“Tell you the truth, Pal,

I’m not thinking past lunch.”