Sneaking in the dead of day,
stealing all my stuff away.
Trusting to black luck and truck
with a driver prone to stray.
Footage of your depredations
shall be broadcast to all nations --
as with Cain your name is muck.
The poet's life is quiet;
aloof yet quite serene.
His manner of greeting
is hearty, but fleeting.
And won't include treating --
for he hasn't got a bean.
"Why do you wish to cancel?"
the Indian gentleman queried,
but I was far too wearied
to tell a man who didn't care,
so far away in folding chair,
so said: "To build a chancel."
Look ahead, and hope to gain
all the Lord for us doth deign.
Bitter as today may be,
tomorrow's possibility
holds miracles like clouds hold rain.
Though I clothe myself in satin
and feed richly on risole,
what's the use of fancy living
that neglects my needy soul?
Feasting on the scriptures whole
will my spirit instead fatten!
A winter bird with stiffened wings
that found its flight too full of stings.
Pinioned in some bushes handy,
looking like a Spanish grandee.
With Spring, perhaps, surprising thaws
will help both he and I feel dandy.
Remember when we were in Calipers,
and you wore a Fleischmann's Yeast ring?
Your Aqua Net hair made so many stare,
while Folgers around us did sing!
And then there was Wahpeton Station,
where we drank our Gallo in bliss;
the Glidden sprang up like some frisky pup --
we ran, but the Beech-Nut did miss.
The Felbish was never so Hamline,
the Bicycle Cards never blew
all over the decks like handfuls of Chex
when we drove down Route 42.
The Hostess and Clorox have faded.
Crayola and Culligan too.
But Dr. Scholl's patch can never detach
that London Fog that we once knew!
You'll come back to me;
or I'll come back to you.
Wouldn't it be nice
if such things would come true?
But you left long ago
and I've moved on since then;
the bitter tides insist --
'There is no where or when.'
The words of Jesus Christ secure
us from all folly and allure
that otherwise sends us adrift
and makes of life but dull short shrift.
Heed his words today to be
caught up in full felicity.
My son had a blanket he carried about.
All color dragged out of it finally.
It was his totem and breechclout.
It was more real to him than Amy and I.
I took it away once to punish him.
He lay down like roadkill to cry.
But I thought pity should not my duty cloy.
I was very wrong -- but he won't hear me now
when I say "Forgive me, my dear little boy."
