This is a story about two boys
The taller one has a gun tucked into his waistband
And thinks the bullets are meant for him
The older one has a record player in his head
He sings along to the same five songs
They know each other
Down to the color of blood
And the sound of bones breaking
But they are strangers
The one with the gun keeps forgetting the words
And the boy with the music Won't let him shoot

Worst of drought seasons,
Ghostly winds howl, reasons
Blaze wildfires' treasons.

In the east, the day is dawning
at  6 am, I'm still yawning
sipping my early cup of joe
I ponder, where it is, I'd like to go.
That's retirement, I guess
finally done with work, I now  can rest
no more punching timeclocks
no snarled traffic or roadblocks.
How do I spend my time, I ask myself
walking, reading, writing,
dusting off neglected shelves
loafing on the open porch
until I feel the sun begin to scorch.
Taking long, warm baths and showers
stopping to admire flowers
curling up with one good book
not much caring, how I look.
Eating foods that I love best
watching hair fade from my chest
doing things that give me pleasure
in whatever form or measure.
On my face is one big Smiley
as I live,  the life of Riley.