Final Cut (Poetry)

I have reached that fork in the road
that runs near the edge of the map
and it’s late in the afternoon
high time for some tea and a nap

There’s the radio playing soft
a whole melody of old tunes
and I drift through my childhood years
my head full of party balloons

All the kids I once knew are there
in the house where I used to live
there are faces it’s hard to recall
a few I don’t choose to forgive

With a rose-tinted lens in my eye
I summon up ghosts one by one
my parents play much kinder roles
thus I generally have better fun

These days I return more and more
hark back to the past’s hazy dream
not exactly the way that it was
but how I so-wish it had been