Classic Poem

One by one
the young poets,
cautioned by my wife,

approached me
for a pleasant word,
then retreated,

I standing by myself
my face clouded over
and I replied politely.

How they bustled and
chatted, the wives
setting the tables

laying out the cheeses
for a picnic
the men in a huddle

by themselves
drinking beer,
good Joe's.

How so light-hearted
as if carrying
a high note inside?

Care-free too?
Must be the outdoors
and the idea

of a picnic.
A case of summer
ungluing poets.

Bless the everyday.
“This is the weather
the cuckoo likes
and so do I.”
And Bruegel:
come out, peasants,

pick your beau
swing your partners
and doe-si-doe

never mind that
I'm tied to a post
like a dog waiting

for his mistress
to reappear
with the mustard

while the fiddles
tear up the air,
damn the Altzheimer,

hold on, Flo,
whirl to the right
and let 'er go.