too far

I should have known
the offending jargon
flaunted in my face
like a snapping gym towel

sitting here serene
in wood heat and cheap whiskey
debating with the cat
over Friskies and catnip

would drag me laughing
from winter procrastination
into a wet slush storm
of quick-slash poetry

you the Love Lane mystic
jogging ahead of the years
summoning young women
from their couches

knowing the weaknesses
of foolish younger codgers
stirring the cauldron
with passion and wit

would finally prod me
irreverent and grinning
challenging the night smoke
with my own drifting embers

                                                
                      © Chuck Beals 2002