Reading Dharma Bums in the little bus,
halfway through the journey on a golden
morning hot under the blue bowl of the sky,
I feel, deluded fool, almost as young
as when I read On the Road on the big
swing that had been my grandparents,
travelling then a mental map as real as
anything from Ray Bradbury, as
impossible to reach. And now,
I'm in 1955, have wasted thirty
years, and think how silly young
people in their early thirties were
and how great it would be thirty-four
or fourteen again, live again
and make other, better mistakes,
to become someone else
fitting the mould of their
eventual years.
13.07.2024
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