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I’m moving to a place between all other synapse
Where past and future become untouchable
And present is a dull kind of serenity.
I’ll have a little wooden bench there,
By the water, where flies ripple the surface.
I’ll stick my legs out and I’ll sit there,
And I’ll sit there, with my cane,
Until a voice says, “Mr. Moore,
It’s time for your evening meds.”
And I’ll look up at the kind-faced nurse
To say, “Has the day gotten old, already?
Oh my, where has life gone?”

Not tomorrow,
But not too much later, it seems.
The nurse will hold my arm to help me inside.