Ain’t We Got fun

In The Mornin’

                         

Newspapers, bagged and looped

o’er my ‘47 Schwinn,

pedaling east on a paper route 

I encountered a mountainside

bordering my Minnesota prairie town.                                        

The sun, about to rise, would

light this ersatz phenomenon,

expose its prairie absurdity

and shoo it off with the morning dew.   

I had to hurry to cruise its

short-lived vistas

and exotic avenues.

In The Evenin’          

Seated, wearied, in a western hotel bar,

we watched a Wasatch evening Alpenglow.

Sunlight crept up the mountainside

as the evening lifted the day away.                      

A sequence of hillside nighttime lights ensued,

featuring a red

flashing “U,” which . . . they said

meant the Utes

had won another game.

Celebrating, we ordered another round, the same.

                                                                                   

In the Meantime, In Between Time

From a low swale of creek-cooled air,

and damp-enhanced aromas

of magnolia, pine and pulp mill sulphur,

a wrist twist sent my Honda responding.

Its twin cylinder cycle vibes

thrust me up the far side

of the road dividing Georgia’s red clay earth

into the evening’s displaced warmth.

Ain’t We Got Fun.

Dennis R. Keefe

March 23, 2009 

"Ain't We got Fun," 1921.  Music, Richard A. Whiting.  Lyrics, Raymond B. Egan and Gus Kahn.