Fall is getting leafier the older I become.
It seems that I must rake ‘em up until my hands are numb.
Those breezes crisp that poets like to rhapsodize about
Blow my neighbor’s leaves into my yard until I shout.
And I am sick of pumpkins and of mazes in the corn.
The cliches that are trotted out to me seem too shopworn.
Football season -- phooey! Just concussions and cold bleachers.
And I am too far gone to care about the new school teachers.
It may be jacket weather, but to me that ain’t a plus.
Digging out my woolen socks is bound to make me cuss.
If I had the money, then the beach at Waikiki
Is where I’d celebrate the seasons quite contentedly . . .
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