in my accustomed position
edge of deck, facing Northeast,
sun rises on my left, it’s  an
early barely warm,
a hopeful leading indicator of a
summer’s day coming resurrection

except? but! it is a windy 68°F
now redefined as effin’ freezing,
to an old navy man’s seasonal attire
well worn droopy and holey
t-shirt & shorts,
but overlaid, today in a wrapper-ed
of a wooly  blanket, purchased on
Amazon,
(whom neglected to advise,
that it will shed
like an eight year old
who has just
embraced the efficacy
the greatest of ease
of telling tiny
white lies frequently)

the ancien regime of erstwhile
(what is that exactly?)
better known as yesterday’s glory,
when pores poured forth streams
of coppertoned stories of
caramel vanities,
lead old fools to contemplate
perspective, something they do
with increasing frequency,
when
they remember
when
etc.

you dishonestly write of the vagaries of a 68°F perspective?  

a heaven for a mayday,
now a cursed starter, inhibiting,
predicting a wintery foretelling of
dreary dregs of a Great Lake
never-ending, graybeard
eternal winter’s sky
(sooo depressing)

and even though the
acorns of August(1)  are
plentiful. a surety that
back to school sales are
soon starting, i grasp my
summer vibes in a
tight forlorn of
yellowing old newspaper
wrapping of pleadings,
“stay, stay just a bit longer”

and though you would
think, believe, with aging
brings the perspective
to accept the changes
of seasons, body, technology,
and the wisdom not to write
foolish poems

but the Zombies defer,
making me deep recall,
the ones that got away
saying perspective is
a second cuz to perspicacity,

and even though,
“She’s Not There,”
reliving pain,
any many of the gone but
variety kind,
it is a necessary
to qualify if only
to be reminded
a necessity for we
old, only humans

no matter the degree
we live through our
perspectives