I have the wind-whipped mellow
in my hands - running the open
Meadow where the Hudson flows.
Me, and dog named something.
Here, some marsh-grass grows
taller than me and my feet, suddenly
stuck in the muck, fight back. At
the open bar on the corner, about
2 blocks away, groups of people
chatter while they drink. The beer
there flows like molten honey for
someone's celebration of fame, or
money. In the rear lot, by the old,
white barn, another madman tinkers
with a '72 Impala; like there was
something he could do about that
now. We are all what we pass for -
ancient and antique, or as freshly
new as one of those girls at the bar.