46 years
What do you get
Your way past old
Your pants don’t seem to fit
Your always cold
Like day old bread
Your beginning to mold
Broken Hips
Brittle Bones
46 years
**** that’s old

They come by dawn’s early light


Just past Five am, they do an extended aerial search,
though well familiar with the shoreline and our oppo
campsites, they fly over in formation noisily debating,
which hunting grounds seem most secure, least guarded.

the scouts, numbering six, descend to the far edge of an
adjoining neighbor’s property, as always, remaining close
to the water’s edge, while the main body of these ghastly,
geesely beasts, numbering today a massive force of 42, land and storm our beach, after traversing up the earthen berms that buffer the bulkhead, and that also provides them a out-of-sight, surreptitious, secretive approach to the fresh green grass, that has emerged from two days of much needed sky watering.

Our preparations are at the ready, the old faux velvet slippers by the door, next to it our weapon of choice, a white parasol, most suitable for a tour group of tourists to follow, but this day, it is an extension of a waving arm and low growling.  Once the bevy of heads are espied bobbing spotted coming over the rise that downward slopes to the beach, the battle commences!

The two forces well known to each other, we advance slowly,
with a deliberate mien on our faces and in our step, and the enmity, I mean enemy, sees us coming and the alert is squawked, and all heads raised. they the geese, are in full dress fight or flee modality.  

We get within but a few paces when they squeak retreat, and in good order march to the beach, hoping to observe us in an early retreat and plan a sneaky return.  But we  proceed closer and they beat their wings and head to safety, and seeing us close observing their action, wisely to the water go.

But we know them well. Uncannily uncanny, they pretend to hide evasively, with semi-wounded pride nursed, while under the cover afforded by the dock. Yet, seeing our presence in attentive attention,  go forth finally to a safe distance to the wide, broad Peconic Bay.  

But this day is not yet over, for these foul fowl, counting upon human laziness and the appeal of a quick victory, paddle over to our other neighbor’s unguarded land mass and start to clamber up onto dry land 100 yards further east.

We gamely observe and realize furthest action now required,
descend to the beach, each side warily observing, regrouping.
Our approach is well kenned, and the enemy decides this day their cause is lost, and to the water retreat once more, heading around the bend, onwards to Shell Beach and West Neck Harbor.

As we return to our encampment, the bunny rabbits who,live beneath the deck emerge to give us glorious applause, for love no lost tween these two mismatched species of the same Kingdom, who share the appetite for the grasses greenest nutrients, though the geese leave their dreaded cluster bombs most unpleasant, and fully ravage the grass as if it was theirs alone.

The rabbits bring us coffee in porcelain mugs, steaming hot, for they have witnessed before this dance, most progressive, this charade of derring do, and love the quietude of the early morning, happy to share it with the itinerant beach walkers of the early hours and our
Dawn Patrol.

We drink in  our victory in deep and hot, and note per doctors orders, that our heart rate never exceeded 125 beats per minute, as ordered.

Sunday Jul 25
Silver Beach Armed Forces (SBAF!)
Peconic Beach Division

Officer Natalino (his official code name]

Lisa and I finally tested covid-free! When we saw our results, we began an impromptu dance that felt like levitation.

Although my covid case seemed much milder, Lisa’s been nothing but supportive. Why just yesterday morning, before we tested, Lisa said, “If you test covid-free before I do, I’ll **** you.” She was holding a spork which gave the threat a specific gravity it might otherwise have lacked.
“Back off, Sweeny,” I said.

We worked the next day, masked - just in case - and I’d swear that Rebecca, my surgeon, almost smiled when she saw me. As funny as Rebecca is, off-hours, once she puts on that white coat - forgetaboutit - she goes to some other, humor-free zone.

That night, we went out to our favorite bar to celebrate our Lazarus-like resurrections.

In the club, as we were walking to the bar, Lisa asked me, “What if we get carded?” I gasped. Never, have I EVER been carded. To even suggest the possibility is to risk breaking a spell that has lasted since I was fifteen years old and first walked in the adult-bar world.

It’s not that I look old, I’ve been told I don't look 21 (although I’m almost 20) - but in dark, bar-light - I just look “right,” like I belong. And let's face it, no bar turns away college girls or charges them a cover - we’re good for business.

I put a hand on Lisa’s shoulder and stopped us in our tracks. “Turn around three times,” I said.
“Why?” She asked. “To break the god-****, bad luck, vu doo you just put on us!” I said exasperatedly. She shrugged and started to turn in a circle. Again I took her by the shoulders, “Counter-clockwise,” I instructed, “don’t you know anything?!” Once she’d broken the jinx, we were free to go on.  The next part can only be poetry.

Behind the bar were shelves of bottles, brightly lit,
with pastel glows that shame the merely silver moon.
Red rums, golden bourbons, begging you to commit,
elixirs that dull every pain and brighten every mood.
Give us your tired, your lonely, and like Houdini
we’ll invoke fun with mystical treats like martinis.

We were basking in those lantern-like glows, like tourists, in heaven, when a bartender said, “What can I get you?” How generous those words were, how open and inviting.

“What’s your name?” I asked, he was wearing a name tag but I leaned in and gave him my friendliest smile. It’s important to establish a personal connection - but you can’t get carried away. He might be gay and decide you’re trailer.

“Brian,” he said. Brian was talking to me, but then he’d noticed Lisa and suddenly, he couldn’t take his eyes off her (Lisa’s an adriana). This bartender wasn’t gay at ALL.

I handed him my black, Centurion, American Express card “Can we set a tab for us?” I motioned to include Lisa, “and please include a 30% tip for yourself.” I smiled. He smiled.
“Oh, and there’ll be a gentleman joining us as well (Charles).”
“Sure.” he said, as he swiped the card on his iPad, adding, “now, what are you having?”

I’m a bit of a bon vivant, where cocktails are concerned but tonight, we’ll keep it vanilla.
“We’ll start with a Cherry coke (for Charles) and,” I looked at Lisa for approval, “Two American Martinis?” She smiled, “Please,” I added, putting my card away.
The coke is psychologically important; it gives the bartender what’s called 'plausible deniability.’
“Do you have a menu?” I said, as he turned to go. “Coming right up,” he said.

We were on a rooftop terrace that overlooked the Boston skyline. To the left, there were tables enclosed in glowing, geodesic bubbles that changed colors and off to the right, a dance space where couples were dancing, and a DJ was spinning ‘Sorja Smith’s - Little things.’

Our drinks arrived and Lisa and I laughingly toasted our covid survival.
At that moment, at least, everything seemed right with the world.