Can Dream

I want at eighty

Aged fingers aching, you ask from your dustless desk

That I sit on your lap

“Come here my dear,” your mind tells mine, and I run from the garden to you

My muddy hands press each vowel as soft as you silently wish

Consonants requiring more, you place your hands upon mine

The numbers, my math, needs your correction “17-something…” I say

My age, you know, my dear

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