August afternoon down by the barn
With buddies doing what we do

Kids across forest creek make too much
Noise for us, disturb [un]natural mood

But then I start wondering to myself if they
Instead were our favored grandchildren

If you would be so damn annoyed by ruckus
—Before just blasting out Jim Morrison.

I’ve been worrying
That current attitude
Of sluffing under my bus

A few forever-close friends
Given new rubric, Sooo little
Time left, No way to be intimate

With those where too much baggage
Accumulated in out-dated relationships
—That you feared becoming like some

Dylanesque ugly primitive Jewish Yahweh
My-way-or-the-highway-when-you-see-me
Coming-you-better-run type of angry old man

‘Til a micro-dose psilocybin showed how to love.