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With a Hey, Ho, the Wind, the Rain

Bruce Hakes

Don’t remember much from those days when I feigned foolery,
behaved a fool, a great Shakespearean fool, like Feste or Falstaff,
or neither, maybe I was more a Dogberry, a Constable, an ass
who thought the substance of friendship didn’t need measurement,
constant maintenance, to be refilled, to be diluted when too astringent.
I remember never having water enough to placate the losses, seepage,
the rise in acidity whenever I’d relapse, bawl to be down an ass.
I can’t, no, I never measured water levels and pHs, daily, frequently
enough to have those friends around—still—would you want a fool,
an ass as a bar pal, your coffee partner, flower thrower at your wedding?