somewhere, not here, there's a hoary shadow
of wisdom who lives in between his ears, though he's
only on his second beer and only in his second decade.

a poet of his own deeply personal feelings,
that go by like a wagon train: un-named, un-noticed.
taming his boyhood monster-memories of future stardom.

so huge was his shadow on his Aunt June's porch swing.
when he was in his sixth summer, he was Willy Mays
and Joe DiMaggio, The Babe, Ty Cobb; he was all the greats.

time is real, not an illusion as he nods for another brew,
and that decision is/was the turning point forever but
disguised as just another beer, another night.

but, then all his other beers were decisions too,
lasting lifetimes, at least his momentary lifetime.
and he graduated Summa Cum Laude into his own Oz.

eschewing shool, he encountered true, pure education
coming at him dressed in flowing tresses of scorn.
"do this", "don't do that", "it's my job", "can't help you."

sloshed the suds of his fourth beer, the second week,
of the third month, of his first and only life, he swallowed.
waved for the fifth beer, and blinked.

07/25/2005

Posted on 07/25/2005
Copyright © 2025 Charlie Morgan