Take it Easy, Take it Hard

For Bubba

In the winter I wait for summer.

In the thick of summer, it seems like cooler,

more tolerable weather will never circle back around. 

Days and weeks are spiraling past, while simultaneously the bus never seems to round the corner. My friend, you write: Innocents, awaiting the divine, suddenly propelled forward on the edge of an alien tsunami. Fifty years gone in a blink. 
Knowing that fifty days and fifty years can blink and drag and blink and drag... how can I argue? 

How can I deny it?

Instead I will say this:

Go get Marly, walk down and let him splash in the river and shake his natty fur. Sit in the garden near Phebe's witchy thistle patch. Sit in the grass, lay down in the grass. Rest your head on that smelly precious dog. Light a bonfire, drink wine from a coffee cup on the darkening porch. Dance until the record skips then tell jokes in the kitchen, mosquito slapping. Scratch your beard, take a swim and shake your natty fur. Let your grown son be a child. Take it easy and take it hard.

Go get Marly and walk down to the river,

I will watch for the bus finally rounding the corner

and find myself aboard.