They want us to be real, clumsy maybe
Capturing video over the years on a Super 8
Crackling like cold butter on toast.
Funny, the short reel of film
Captures all the best moments. All that money.
You know, every one goes to Florida,
Goes to prom, in a dress
And we forget that it wasn’t a factor of ability.
And we continue to tell the girl that she’s beautiful
Because that’s what you do.
They want us to be wild, frenzied even
Rollerblading through our twenties
And explaining to our children that it was the times,
The years. You go looking through dusty hatboxes
To find a picture of your grandmother
And you say that she was a beautiful woman.
She is standing by the Christmas tree,
The first car, the threshold, in grandpa’s arms
With a grade-11-diploma smile on her face.
She called herself a bohemian in those days,
Those years, with her hair like curling ribbon
When you drag scissors through it, and her tawny barrette
As good as her own housekeeping.
They want to invade our admirations, clean them up
I always liked the way you said “forget”
And the way your ears poked through your hair
And the way your knees looked in a pair of
Blue jeans, starchy, not like you.
I try to decide based on that re-incarnation bullshit
If you’re an old soul or a new soul, and I give up.
And so I curl my R’s the way you do
And brush my hair to the front
And pull my bell bottoms so they rest around my hips,
And I figure you’re both. An old and a new soul.
I go canvassing in my neighbourhood to find out
What’s pretty. I compile their preferences,
Murdering local affections,
And whatever runs past these residential houses
Like city transit is what sells a bottle of whiskey.
With that attitude, I might as well buy myself
A plane ticket to Florida.