Milk Door

Phases, and fading out almost
Took against chances, and squandered a day
Fumbling facts-the place and time, the dates and names
So leave me a hand up, or leave it alone
Procrastinate! What's gone is dead, what's dead is done
I move slowly (I know), but moving slowly is a kind of moving
And I don't regret the paths I've made or the years I spent doing nothing
Growing nothing in a place where every face is old
Back to the milk door-the same house, the same walk, the same chore
If I'm bored, there isn't anyone blame
Wasting wasteland, crumbs of pavement, partial projects put off to vacancy
If you're wondering (I'm not), but wondering at all is a wonder to me
Do you know what I mean?