By Don Kenton Henry

Today I took stock of all for which I paid a fare

The drink and music and solitary travel here or there

Of time spent pursing things I could not acquire and never shall attain

Of years squandered pursing all that’s vain

I thought of material acquisitions victims of inevitable depreciation

Of gifts given with no appreciation

Relationships like cheap jewelry tarnished when exposed to light and air

Cars crashed, rings lost, clothes worn thin

Acquaintances that rolled like coins down a storm drain

Homes and stuff lost in flood to drown … or fire to burn

Things I loved but what for me had no concern 

And lent me neither notice or relief from unacknowledged pain  

Just heartless stuff

Days turned into years spent on envy, worry and neglect

And never a dividend in return

Lovers passed through the turnstile of my heart and took a piece with every turn

Until regrets like thieves and vampires came to play

And tried to steal my days                                                        

But they failed

For now I hear a summer rain come falling down

It plinks and plunks on the tin roof of the humble place to which I have escaped and washes away all recall of wasted yesterday

And from the porch I am dazzled by the yellow of the sun light streaming through the drops like prisms and big as gum balls just before they splash against the orange clay

Sun shower . . . sun light and rain together from a cloudless southern sky

A Creole omen . . . “dreamhopes” and reality get married today

Like old mista’ Mitch, he say, “You jes charge you regrets to d’ dust and let d’ rain settl’ it, Henri . . .”

And so I do

Soon the armadillos under my porch are out

They jump and dance and pounce like nutcrackers in a June ballet at the bugs the rain and sun have stirred from the Bermuda grass and drought

My Blue Heeler jumps through the screen door―off the porch― and takes them all to task

Like my neighbor’s goats and chickens, he tries to herd them all

And I laugh because it’s awfully hard to herd something making like a ball

I take a seat on the step and let the rain roll off the roof, through my hair and down my shirtless back . . .

I hear a whistle and see a Southern Pacific engine―half mile down, cross the track

Then I stand and raise my arms and, with one hand, catch the Texas sun and, with the other, East Texas rain

And I realize these things now mean more to me than all the things on which I wasted time and youth not once to gain

An unseen hand provideth rain and sun and dog and dancing homesteading prehistoric armored possums  to give me proof and cause me pause

To reflect and ascertain . . .

The best things in life to keep one sane . . .

Are squeezing orange Texas clay between your toes and singing of the long lost southern cause. . . as a train clacks the beat . . .

and the thunder claps applause

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