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Saturday, April 7, 2012


The man isn’t old by some measures,
quite ancient by others.
Mostly, it depends upon where he is,
who’s nearby.
Sometimes, it’s the weather, the rain,
His 68-year old body made 86,
war-torn nerve endings enflamed
by moist air.
Today it was the boy, Elijah,
grandson of a neighbor,
looking out her window.

The boy is young by some measures.
wiser and older by others.
Mostly it depends upon the day,
how he slept,
if grandma’s nearby,
if he got a role in that new commercial,
if the pool is empty of adults.
Sometimes it’s his need for speed,
his 10-year old mind wishing for 18,
so he can drive something more than a dream.

They are long-distance buds,
the man and the boy,
the type of friends who most often
communicate by written word,
e-mails the penpalship of the day
Together, they are writing an epic poem,
starring, of course, Elijah,
his family and friends in supporting roles.
They seldom speak in person,
the man writing a page of Seussian rhyme,
the boy reading the electronic copy,
never editing, directing the next page.
Today is one of the rare days,
the boy visiting for Easter,
the man reading poolside.
There are other vacation kids around, so
the pool will soon be loaded, joy filled.
It is tempting to call on grandma,
“accidentally” bump into Elijah,

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