Deja Vu

I was just thinking of you... cussing. Fussing in an effortless ease of which I often envied. I miss that. I see you there, still on your front porch, yelling at Meatloaf to stop digging holes in your yard! "Stop that, Dammit!" you'd half-hazzardly yell, as you took off one of you house shoes and flung it at her. I heard that she died a year after you. Joe found her under the house just beneath the spot where you sat so many days, pondering other people's problems while chain-smoking Newports and drinking Milwaukee's Best Ice--- Often, on sunny days when the air is visciously visible--- when the blackbirds break flight and the bluebells beckon for moisture, I can still see you there, flinging your house shoe at Meatloaf... she, skillfully ducking and then grabbing it up in between her jaws and returning it into your waiting hands.