Up at Pennsylvania’s Poetic Voices

YOUNG AGAIN

The storm that blew through
yesterday,
left a sea of debris,
and air so clear
even the pigeons
sparkle.

I trace
the path of today’s sun,
dawn to dusk,
kick my weekend’s work
down the cellar stairs
and declare a personal holiday.

I have a simple approach—
lounge chair, cooler, chips,
although I spend some time
finding the perfect spot
for my chair.
I will have a purpose—free day.

Like a day at the beach—
no need for justification
in triplicate.
Nah, just sand and sea
a few cold beers
and franks with mustard and kraut.

Surely you remember—
back before the busyness
grabbed you by the short hairs
and deadlines kicked
you in the keister.
I was a kid once—weren’t you?