Old Men
Old men can’t help themselves,
it’s the nature of the beast,
the looking back,
the wondering about change,
about the passing of time.
What of the lake,
so needed in the dog days of summer,
those lazy, hazy days from June to September,
when there was no A/C to crank up.
Is it still a playground without toys,
loved by local girls and boys?
No matter the age we make,
one can’t forget the days,
the unfettered joys,
shared with friends
that time has taken.
We ran through sprinklers,
back and forth, back and forth,
kissed by the sun before retreating
to the shade of an elm,
enjoying an ice cold glass of lemonade,
the kind our moms made.
Is the sky still cloudy in summer,
white puffs portending the arrival
of the thunderheads to come,
rolling in from the plains?
Do children still see them
like pages from a book,
stories ever changing,
always rearranging,
they, the authors, arguing
about the plots – is it a rabbit or mouse?
No! Can’t you see the kangaroo?
And the summer nights
under the stars,
the sights and sounds, the Northern Lights.
Still filled with crickets, owls and fireflies?
Mothers calling? Children whispering, telling lies?
We couldn’t hear them,
sitting, listening to the gentle waves
lapping at the shore,
not catching them like those California surfers,
just wishing we never had to leave our beach,
never, not ever,
just wanting to stay young and happy, evermore.
