When I grow up…

Foto by Jason Weaver, 2017

Foto by Jason Weaver, 2017

You rolled your eyes at me,
said I was lazy
just standing there,
slack-jawed;
told me to
get my head out of the clouds,
get out,
get a job, get a life —
called me a dreamer,
a fool, a loafer, a user, a
good-for-nothing-vagabundo-loser.
You sighed and you scolded,
clucking your tongue and
wagging your finger,
you shook your head
and you warned me,
“I WARN you!
You’ll regret this!
You’ll be sorry!
You’ll be lonely and
you won’t
make any
MONEY!”

At last, is it any wonder why
all that I aspire to be
when I grow up is
a tree.

By Jason Weaver, 2017

 

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