Grumpy Young Men

Fall foliage and a valley
carved deep by the Hudson's tide
drew me to the park
for a bout with Hem and loneliness.
His latest on my list
was on the Spanish Civil War--
something else he watched
but didn't fight in, then transcribed.
It was a recurring theme with him.
I was beginning to respect his writing more
and his farce of bravado less.
No, that's not true.
He lured me in
like those leaves.

The parking lot was empty
when I faithfully arrived.
It took me by surprise that
the high-for-season temperature
didn't bring out the illegals
cooking and fishing and playing in the water.
I thought it'd be too loud to read.
Instead I had a ghost town.

There was one old timer walking near me
on the path to the beach
where I used to lay with lover.
I noted the lack of people.
He said the same of yesterday
aside from a man in a kayak
who started in the Great Lakes
and was heading to the Gulf
for a charity for wounded vets.
"The aquatic Appalachian," I quipped
at his gray beard. He knew when
to break the conversation with a humble
"Have a good one," before it got too awkward.
I was thankful and sad at the same time.
Hemingway had conjured himself
only to vanish in thin air again
this time without the use
of his trusty twelve-gauge shotgun.

And that air was more than fierce
as it blew off the water and tried
turning pages prematurely.
The wind was whipping clouds
predicted to cast showers overnight
to the point of my discomfort
and immediate agitation.
I muscled through the story
of betrayal in a wartime bar
and made my way for my vehicle
and the safety of my room--
the waiting set of another tragedy.

The ride home gave some ammo
for the cynic in the critic:
Behold the daylight drug whores
of the main drag in my city.
A traffic light presented two bumpers
with opposing views stuck on:
"Pray the Rosary" and
"Born OK the First Time"
(a shot at Holy Rollers).
I made peace with happy medium
and told them both to scratch.

But the kicker in the sticker
didn't come until I laid down in bed
to read again and heard the uncommon
combination of lawnmower and crickets
through my open bedroom window.
An overly ambitious neighbor, or perhaps
a proscratinator, was trimming his grass
in the pitch-black of six-thirty.
Coupled with the insects it sang nothing less than home.
I tossed the book, hit the lights, and complied
with what fate gave me: a symphony to sleep through
while my mind erased the day.