Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

The Next Taco

You don’t worry about
being alone when you’re young.
Or how long you will sit
before the next one asks you to dance.
You just get up and dance
and hope someone joins in.
The late night burgers and fries
never seem to leave a mark
and the fog of 3 a.m. beers wash away
with the sunrise.
Each day is a never ending bloom
of breasts and cocks,
walks in the park,
and road trips to small towns like Hohenwald and Pulaski.
Moving is as simple
as loading up an old Volvo with your clothes and a bonsai tree and heading West.
Now there are 401k’s
and realtors knocking at your door
with lying smiles
and trumped up comp sheets.
Babies and diapers
and parents with diseases no one can pronounce.
Hardening arteries
and wrinkles
and gray hairs looming.
There was no fear of death then.
Or thoughts that life hadn’t been lived as it should.
There was no constant uncertainty,
or the need for reassurance,
or the need for more hours.
There was only the present
and how good the sun felt on your back
as you walked in the sand
and the waves licked your feet clean.
Each day was a new page
yet to be written.
Each morning a new bagel
to spread the softness of cream cheese upon
while you lie on the couch admiring your toes.
There was time to drift,
to sleep,
to dream.
Time to find
the next band,
the next girl,
the next taco.