Some of my old friends
seem the same year after year:
just like they were in high school,
at the start of their careers
They talk in careful circles
around where they ought to be;
and most of them still don’t
understand me.
When I look in the mirror,
where I was at seventeen
is covered up and buried
by the miles come in between …
Old trucks, slow trains,
cool nights, and hard rain:
the little things worth
more than buying.
New love, a fast car,
hot sounds from a guitar:
it’s the little things
that keep you trying …
if you’re not growing, man,
you’re dying.
There are just two choices:
growing old, or dying young;
it seems to me no toss-up
to decide.
It seems far too crazy
just to give it all away
before you’ve even given it
a ride.
When I look in the mirror,
sure, I miss what used to be;
but I’d much rather know
that the face I see is me.
Old trucks, slow trains,
cool nights, and hard rain:
the little things worth
more than buying.
New love, a fast car,
hot sounds from a guitar:
it’s the little things
that keep you trying …
if you’re not growing, man,
you’re dying.
21 MAY 2006
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