House, Kid, Dog
       

House, kid, dog: file under things to regret as the years avalanche in.
Birthdays are miserable, let's not pretend otherwise.
Like Christmas, weeping alone on the toilet.
I was convinced insurance was a racket, then the earthquake.
When you were ill and needed me, I was on holiday, bored.

Were cities ever compassionate, or always these shuffling scarecrows?
The rich get nouveau richer.
The poor get richer too, but everything costs more.
We get richer but bitterer.
We get sicker, weaker, blander but less patient with each other.

Where's the fire of youth?
Where's the pessimism of youth that felt cool and not yet terrifying?
I prefer your birthday to mine, out of spite.
Nostalgia's like a meal of sand.
We have no regrets because we didn't do anything.

Our successes were years ago and now small, but we cling on with our teeth.
Everybody is younger and more celebrated than us.
Our families find us selfish.
Our neighbours hate us.
We still torture ourselves with dreams.

The grass will be greener under a mountain of debt.
The grass will be greener when our child abandons us.
The grass will be greener when the dog shits on it.
There was always a certain shame in pride.
But the truth is uglier: all pride is shame.

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Copyright © 2019 Nick Ascroft All rights reserved
from Dandy Bogan
Boatwhistle Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission