Absolutes are always wrong
Shortcuts sometimes take too long
Bird banalities are song
I say ping and you think pong
And not the vaguely racist book
About a truant and a cook
And how he chose the blow he took
Nostalgia needs a second look
This is where I am today.
Tomorrow, too, and yesterday.
Check back next week–I’ll still be here,
Like last week; also, next/last year.
Know me once and me well–
My email’s still on AOL
And yes, each night I rest my head
Upon the wood-framed waterbed
I bought in 1984;
The t-shirts in my bureau drawer
(Still labeled “Play Clothes,” by the way)
Date back to Jimmy Carter’s day.
I’m not saying nothing changes,
Only that it rearranges
Where I am with where I’ve been
So where I go, I’m there again.
Plus ça change, they say abroad.
I’ve always found that saying odd.
My son and I played with the Pops
On Monday nights for years, and stops
For milkshakes (the McDonald’s blend)
Were how we liked our nights to end.
On cooler eves we changed it up
By opting for a warmer cup
And drank our chocolate hot instead:
We’d scald our tongues, then head to bed.
The post-rehearsal chocolate shake
Tradition took me months to break
But when my violinist son
For whom the ritual’d begun
Laid down his bow and headed east
For school, it sputtered, then it ceased.
Still, every now and then, I find
I’m missing notes inside my mind,
Especially when autumn drizzles
Fall, and my willpower fizzles;
There’s no way to fill the chord
Without some chocolate being poured.
On nights like those–and this is one–
I reminisce about my son
And I on Mondays with our sweet
Aprés-orchestral chocolate treat…
And then I put the kettle on
And sigh, because those nights are gone.