the best of days


These are the best of days. While other writers my age are writing their memoirs and fussing over their collected poems, I’m pulling to the curb between window jobs and with the engine still running whipping out Shards and then driving off again. I’ve taken all that my mentors have given me and transformed it into white heat and lighting for the children of a new day dawning.

True, my teeth are bad and my hair is thinning, but my wild teenage granddaughter brags me up to her friends, and this Friday I’m driving north to the Winthrop Blues Festival for a chance to blow my harp. And I ask you–what more could a man ask for?

The object of life past a certain point is to take back the power that they stole from you when you were young.

*Written in 2009…

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