We park under trees and walk
the dew-wet grass
toward the stables.
Gentling is a word they use,
a half-bit spit,
calm, cajole, coax
into harness.
Riders comment on grace, coat,
elegance & conformation.
A dairy son who volunteered
to lend a hand, my own
vocabulary doesn’t fit:
goddamn –
hold still –
dammit –
shit & stupid.
At least the cows
wouldn’t kick
when I brought them hay.
Cleaning a pen or
scraping the barn gutters;
some things, at least,
remain the same.

despite (or perhaps because)
a body in rebellion, falling to pieces,
i like to sit in the beach sand
with a cold beer close by, a beer
soon tepid & sand-bottomed,
as the women in bikinis
i righteously refuse
to stare at (for long).
waves wave bye-bye.
birds swim out beyond the break
& don’t give a damn.
overhead a plane tows a banner
advertising something you don’t
need, ever. read it twice.
when the sun touches my knee,
it feels a bit better, a little lubricated,
the grease warmed to where
anything is possible.
the same can’t be said for baldness,
so pick a bad choice, cap or sunburn.
look foolish trying each on.
if i run the numbers in my head
of what my father, that bastard,
was doing at my age, the answers
are retired (already), dying of cancer,
smoking pall malls, ignoring that
chink in his armor called a prostate.
you shouldn’t think about him,
she says, you get all worked up. angry.
fair enough. reflect, again,
how a beer loses flavor
when you chug it,
how the sun on the water
diamonds a wave: the sound of
children and what possible
mistakes lie ahead.