#108: Endeavor To Never Say "Never" Again (Now What?)

Just Because You Call It Quits,
Find Some Facts, And Fix Your Fits,
That Don't Mean The Onus Sits
On Someone Else's Shoulder.
Be A Genius . . . Be A Ditz,
Take A Penthouse At The Ritz . . .
Until You Blow Your Brain To Bits,
You're Prob'ly Getting Older . . .
And That Means Working Minds Are "Tits,"
While Witches' Bras Are Colder!

Some years later, on a back porch swing,
sipping a glass of wine,
Jo and I sat, remembering,
the whole trip, one more time.

Our memoirs had been written, and
we felt like we were done.
We kept the juicy parts, and let
the rest dry in the sun.

We took turns with the stories . . .
recalling most of them
as epics made for heroes, and
all us self-made men.

Jo-Mima told of battles with
many an idiot dope,
to save the countless innocent lives
back at County Hope.

And I recalled the details of
our wresting science from
that madman, diamond cutter who
might try to make the bomb.

And we both laughed out loud when Jo
described the hero stand
we posed at gates of Death and Hell
to save, well, every man.

For years, our nightmare lessons had
been fading more and more
into some safe subconscious room,
behind a conscious door.

The memories, now, were kinder than
those dire events had been . . .
and measures of control can be
obtained with scotch and gin.

But though forgetting requires some work,
we felt the spike of truth . . .
but we just sipped our wine as if
all learning dies with youth.

So I guess we never should have been
surprised to feel the shake
of swing and porch, and glass of wine,
as if there was a quake.

Well, it rumbled up below us, and
it screamed down from above,
just like the entire universe
decided to make love . . .

"I see you boys have gained some gray."
Lightning flashed the sound.
"It often grows too deep beneath
the skull, I've sometimes found.

But I'm not here to wreck your heads,
as if we both don't know
the learning that you've buried deep,
and try hard not to show.

I'm only here to follow-up.
It's like a warranty.
Nobody wants to see you fail.
It's bad publicity.

Go ahead . . . enjoy your swing,
and have a drink or two.
There's nothing wrong with resting up
with what you boys went through.

However, I must caution that
you ought to get your fill
of lying 'round pretending that
you've swallowed your big pill.

Just maybe there's a lesson, then,
that you both need reviewed . . .
that life ain't like tomatoes, that
are finished when they're stewed.

There ain't no end before the grave,
and that is just a door . . .
but, you stop growing before your time . . .
you'll rot right to the core.

And so it is, from time to time,
all schedules get ignored,
I've got to come and check you out,
and make sure you aren't bored.

Don't make me turn in my report,
describing graduates
who've let their minds turn into mush,
and lowering our stats.

And after all, you ought to try
to mind your Qs and Ps,
if only for the tests you'll take
toward graduate degrees."

And that was it. The Voice was gone,
as quickly as it came.
Jo and I still held our drinks,
and sat there in the swing.

I swallowed slow, not really scared . . .
we'd both stood on this rung . . .
but, still, that was a few years back,
when Jo and I were young.

"Well, so, I guess the good times roll,
and maybe never end.
Did you expect to hear that roar
ever again, my friend?"

"No," Jo answered thoughtfully,
"I must admit that I
was pretty sure the future would
honor our goodbye.

But, Bo, it ain't the sound of him,
nor memories triggered then,
that worries me, and makes me think
we'll never reach the end."

"Well?" I asked, insistently,
"what're you worried about?
We made it through that crazy test,
and found our own way out."

"Well," my friend was pensive . . .
"to tell you, honestly,
I get the deepest feeling that
we'll both go back one day.

The reference made to graduate school,
the hints at learning more . . .
don't you think the Voice described
what we might have in store?"

"NO WAY!" I shouted at my friend,
though, more to tell myself.
"I ain't gonna play that game . . .
with him, or anyone else!"

By then, the evening soaked us like
cool water in a bath,
welling up around us, and
stealing foot and path.

The smell of August flowers filled
the air so totally,
it seemed like perfume bubbles ought
to show up, visibly.

And though we didn't recognize
how tuned our senses got,
looking back, I'm quite surprised
we didn't find it odd . . .

that sight and smell, and taste and touch,
all spoke of something queer,
no matter how intent our feel,
there was no sound to hear.

And then, as if to answer me,
and my demand to skip
an excursion in the future, or,
experiential trip . . .

the Earth began to turn and twitch . . .
the sky to buckle-ling . . .
and when we finally bid 'good night,'
we heard some chuckle-ling.