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Poem	It's too nice a day to read a novel set in England. We're within inches of the perfect distance from the sun, the sky is blueberries and cream, and the wind is as warm as air from a tire. Even the headstones in the graveyard Seem to stand up and say "Hello! My name is..." It's enough to be sitting here on my porch, thinking about Kermit Roosevelt, following the course of an ant, or walking out into the yard with a cordless phone to find out she is going to be there tonight On a day like today, what looks like bad news in the distance turns out to be something on my contact, carports and white courtesy phones are spontaneously reappreciated and random "okay"s ring through the backyards. This morning I discovered the red tints in cola when I held a glass of it up to the light and found an expensive flashlight in the pocket of a winter coat I was packing away for summer. It all reminds me of that moment when you take off your sunglasses after a long drive and realize it's earlier and lighter out than you had accounted for. You know what I'm talking about, and that's the kind of fellowship that's taking place in town, out in the public spaces. You won't overhear anyone using the words "dramaturgy" or "state inspection today. We're too busy getting along. It occurs to me that the laws are in the regions and the regions are in the laws, and it feels good to say this, something that I'm almost sure is true, outside under the sun. Then to say it again, around friends, in the resonant voice of a nineteenth-century senator, just for a lark. There's a shy looking fellow on the courthouse steps, holding up a placard that says "But, I kinda liked Reagan." His head turns slowly as a beautiful girl walks by, holding a refrigerated bottle up against her flushed cheek. She smiles at me and I allow myself to imagine her walking into town to buy lotion at a brick pharmacy. When she gets home she'll apply it with great lingering care before moving into her parlor to play 78 records and drink gin-and-tonics beside her homemade altar to James Madison. In a town of this size, it's certainly possible that I'll be invited over one night. In fact I'll bet you something. Somewhere in the future I am remembering today. I'll bet you I'm remembering how I walked into the park at five thirty, my favorite time of day, and how I found two cold pitchers of just poured beer, sitting there on the bench. I am remembering how my friend Chip showed up with a catcher's mask hanging from his belt and how I said great to see you, sit down, have a beer, how are you, and how he turned to me with the sunset reflecting off his contacts and said, wonderful, how are you.
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