Children in screeching sun-hats weave, lurking hippies, through hazy heat of Blondie, recalled by fat men - balding; myself included. Families and beer, sunshine, cheer, existential fear, weeping pride in mediocrity. No need to succeed. No goal for a poet but, dammit, we write. A dog slides a tongue inside my ear. Violated. I'm not sure I mind.
