Beg, plead --
you do not move
terra antiqua
shakes you
off to mom's basement
or into the Peace Corps,
to a heretofore unknown
smugness old coworkers
aren't aware you feel.
They have lives, you see,
all too brief, as they saw.
Horrific truth,
a reminder they hate:
advice, alarmingly free.
"Go West," said your harried
aunt fondling her rosary.
A brother in the clergy,
a sister emerging
from the package store.
Who's that piece of shit she's with?
It's not your business anymore.
Cast your lot on the Pacific shore;
from there, the world
doesn't sparkle. Now it's yours.
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