poem: belle and sebastian

grown-up teenage ennui, I’m middle-aged I’m middle-aged
you sing to all the kids, eternally dying, out in America-nowhere. what
kind of cry can the old outcast make, wearing commercial success
with the same joviality that drove me, 17, to find
you, fellow-shut in, beneath the bookstore bookshelf; you told
me about the thin lines between continuing and not, and
other fictions. now we are old and aging graciously. your big auburn
eyes, once mellowed out by computer-skin glow, have seen Glasgow
and Sydney and New York, New York. In tropical places I
touched you; it was always winter and autumn in the songs, mellow
yearning made happy. the internet/introvert personality commodified,
troupe of social-net-sponsored dilettantes, achingly sincere. you
played bass up my back-line, kissed me goodnight, now we go
softly into dark night.