Now that my hair has grown long
like in those last photographs of John Lennon,
sitting on that couch in those jeans, suddenly
assuming the role of middle aged man,
bereft of his famous round spectacles,
possibly the coolest forty year old in the world,
I will sit and drink tea, perhaps dunk
chocolate biscuits into the warm arena of my cup,
content that the tops of my ears
make me feel like a Beatle.
