Dollar Days
by Michael Doyle

Here in the noonday's faded haze
Stuck in the cheap seats of dollar days
Daydreams wear a sense of modesty
That sneaks in past our integrity

There are poems written as confessional
At the realization that no one is special
No more special than anyone around
But then again, that's where special is found

As the world moves on, we do our part
Each of us carries what's in our hearts
From a Dickensian chronicle of life's garden
We find ourselves reflecting on our fortune

A double flash of a peace sign and a smile
Some live life in their own particular style
Fame knows the game of wide-eyed impersonation
To which the world turns in its timid relation

Not to be pretentious or seem overly clever
The problem with immortality is that it's forever
But as with all things, the time does come
And there you are with your toes wading in the kingdom

As the world moves on, we do our part
Each of us carries what's in our hearts
From a Dickensian chronicle of life's garden
We find ourselves reflecting on our fortune

(c) April 7, 2025  Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved