Age And Delusion

,Books rest akin to athletes who have run their races. Frank rubbed his palms and fingers across pages, gone yellow, marked in time. Frank waiting to die, his music, the lingo of his generation dissolves in a fine funnels of mists. Buildings, gray markers the granite cracks, are the only things anchored in time. They will last longer than Frank. Frank finds himself staring, eyes parked on various items knowing they'll outlast him. They'll be in the air, feel the heat from the sun the cold of winter. A body bundled, hanging in a doorway swing in silhouette. Frank was drawn to it. The beer bottle rolled from the palm of Franks's hand. Sitting there he recalled the first time he popped his cherry at 16 with Janna. . . . The lights came up and Frank stumbled to the street. The beer joint a half a block up the street was bathed in yellow light. Frank found himself very thirsty.