Glory days are always the best of the best and I am pretty much done with the hurry up and get there era, assimilating more of a hold-on, I-wasn’t-done-with-that, wait-a-minute perspective in order to scoff at the memory of the rabid flames of my more tender days when energies refused to be thrust anywhere but vigorously into the future, and the rest of the time was spent playing catch up hanging white-knuckled onto the tail end of the last big thing that just flew by while the merry-go-round whirled in kaleidoscopic ecstasy dripping with wide-eyed, smiling peers and waiting until the spinning frivolity subsided and the lusty puffs of air abated before succeeding to leap on with them and looking around now to adorn your face with their same jocular smile to find they had all flown off to the next thing and left me spinning and giddy.

The last one.

Last summer I wandered down the alleyway looking at the locked back doors and wondered what was left inside the bolted cob-webbed wooden garage doors because it’s pleasant back there looking at it now without needing to remember how many times the now abandoned vehicles of progress refused to start and how often the morning train was missed and the bus didn’t come and the alibi plan B was executed without hesitation swooping down to rescue everyone affected by the snarled and inconvenient travesty commuting put upon the greater society walking in the door at ten minutes past whatever hour is required for commerce to march triumphantly into the morning coffee break without a proper cup and hope at least to find someone is left to assuage a sagging disposition when the meeting started 15 minutes ago and you are late.

The last one.