Illusion

At a certain point, it stops being
fun, Runt. The chicken, the hot
dogs, the treats for days.

I know it’s weird. I can’t explain it.

But we had the five groundhogs
this summer. The squirrel we
treed today at the park.

The mailwoman, by god. The UPS truck.

There will always be the scents
we’ve taken in, the scents
we’ve left behind.

The things we’ve tasted. That loaf of pound cake.

I am now, have been, and forever will be persistent.
Unyielding and dogged, especially when
I am doggedly yielding to you.

The games I let you win. The bones I let you have.

And while I may disappear
from here a little
ahead of you

that signifies nothing.

For you, me, and the Bald Man
the distinction between past
present, and future is only

a stubbornly persistent illusion.



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