What happened to that me
Who picked up old receipts
Off the road half-expecting
To see messages from God
Written on them
Or that me who rode my mini-bike
Past the lovely girl’s house
Dozens of times a day
Half expecting to see her
Walk down that long driveway
To wave me into her life
Or that me who got into that old
Nash Rambler with my half-psycho
Father every Sunday to suffer his
Lies and cigarette smoke and farts?
What happened to that me who prayed
for a UFO to land in my backyard to
take me to a planet full of honest
full-time fathers, a God who spoke
directly to all who called,
and a lovely girl with my name
In her heart?
— Fyodor Bukowski
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