Two old men in my magi class, were
walking in a public garden, during the scare in the air,
they touch at few common points, five years experience
more or less, in any given field of function,
they share in broad bubbles of common comps, experience wise.
One marriage... both have had one, not the same one
Exposure to radio music and commentary from birth... not the same music,
not the same commentary
Aware of war roles and support roles, from first words onward, aware of being
one of a we, who are the children of the winners,
except, the enemy remains, they shoulda stomped Stailin into Hell,
ever'body knew, we did, too... though
my 1948 vintage, was leavened with Hiroshima, in vitro, and
in seed, touched a bit by events near Alamogordo, where my daddy
participated in war ending events, this other old dude, he never saw that way,
what I mention seeing, today.
Hell is for heros. I think aloud.
My dad was an accountant, with a night school degree, four kids,
woulda been five, but Peggy died,
some anomoly in the wind, was the rumor, where we lived,
south of the Nevada desert through which our
northern breezes list, licking up dust devils to twist novel
substance into threads of thought to think in time,
as the virus spreads, peace takes its chance, right on or
dead on, dead center, spot on, too right, smack
hit it, and the skier rises from the vortex, towed by that line
linking me to the countenance, encountered, mirror neuron
tronic magi-missed spells, dangling
if I were yous used as iusta use pennies behind fuses,
I owe you, nothing, but to define my terms, ere I dare con
with you. Okeh?
Same page, two old men walking along, talking often,
one to the other, one to himself, each knowing himself,
each wondering the other saw what each noticed,
with a nod, saying, yeah, I was thinking you mighta noticed that.
Life's fun. But near the end, it becomes so believable, that it works,
despite our own seeming disfunction.
Nothing that crumbles can with stand, in a proper dust devil, in my mind