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Friday, July 5, 2024

 

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.

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