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  • Writer's pictureDave Soyars

It’s About Time

Those were the times, she said, that you didn’t have

to think about it much.

Just get in the car and go.

To the beach,

To the woods,

To the hills,

To the snow.

To the fire,

To the freeway,

To the ground,

To the lights.

To the theaters downtown. To the library. To the record store.

Never saw myself going far, well this far, well quite so far, but nor did I think so far would feel as close, as close as you are either,

You know?

So I think back to that time of the red cars and the train stops at the market. And wonder whose heart

YOU, fair city, are written in. A drunken man’s fantasy of a land he never knew?

I think of what’s there and what’s not there and I know what we lose.

You’re there for good.

You’re the last stop of many.


Are TRYING to make this this base.

So who are ‘we?’

Do we still belong here?

Who made us pay so high for the little comfort we’re allowed?

And who are ‘they?’

Who are richer.

Who are poorer. But ultimately,

They are us.

So we are here, right?

The time. That’s what really counts.

So we’ll leave it,

For now.

If they see us they might ask us how we are and we’ll say:




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