I was in my car not far…
not far from New Brunswick,
between hither and thither,
down a dairy-dell road
and a Granny Smith orchard.
As I came across an old-line poet,
sitting in a straight back chair,
sucking on a lime and sipping tequila,
as he whittled me a song, sharing his hooch,
quoting an opinion from The View.
Saying to me, as he passed the lime,
“God spoke to me, whispering in my ear,
young women like ermine and rings
and rockers who sing on Friday nights,
while playing a five-string guitar.”
Yes, he came from the old-school,
where women knit and baked,
played patty cake and Bridge after four,
while kissing their hubby
before he mowed the front lawn.
When he fell asleep and his eyes shut,
I saw the plectrum-picker laying on his chest
and a picture of a grayed-haired granny,
along with an apple core…
Miss Homeroom Queen, 1954.
So he fell asleep daydreaming about his love.
I wrote that in 2016 about my grand pop.