I have been told that this poem is overly cynical and depressing. I guess it is also too simplistic. I personally now think I may have posted it too quickly so I will call it a work in progress. How is that?
Covered all my bases on that. Here are my, uh, notes for this poem:
"In a small American town, two blocks off mainstreet, there are, in this order, an old folks retirement home, a mortuary, and an antiques shop.
A life built on mainstreet moves to a rest home, and ends with eventual inevitability in a mortuary. A life's belongings are sold or relegated to an antiques store.
Life really doesn't amount to much."
What I really want to say, and this goes with the previous post, make something of your life. Have something to show at the end of your days. I know. I even depress myself.
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Just catching up on reading your posts. The last few have reminded me of going through my mom's things, what to keep and what get rid of. She is a pack rat so there were heaps and mounds of things. It was depressing. That is part of life...to see the things that she hung on to but now have become burdensome. A lifetime of things.
It has made me get rid of "things" so there is more room for "memories".
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