Forties

Fog

When 40s roll
You dig deep into your wishing well
To look at what glows inside
The mutiny of the body equates
To the depleting chemicals and what one can think is
How to rake in the dough

While the mind is summer is a fruit salad
The autumnal mind is a perfectly layered pudding
Served on a company table
Filling deep pockets with deeper ambition

Wisdom, in such layers
Makes wealth a lot like lust was 15 years back
There are no g—spots though in the 40s
Just sweet spots of when demand is met by supply

And an invisible hand amasses columns
Of numerals at the end of a row

Just to sleep better tonight

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