'57 CHEVY
I've entered what's called my golden years,
But there's silver in my hair.
Is that the color of my setting sun?
If it is,
When did I get here?
My tattoos are all very faded,
Blurred lines running together.
My breasts don't sit high anymore,
And my arthritis forecasts the weather.
As I go about my days,
Carrying out the routines of life,
I...
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