I have a fairly tasty beer, a stretch of idle
Hours on a day that's warm, despite the wind.
The latest war is far away, as are the outraged
Hypocrites and witless, clueless analysts.
It's Sunday, so no mail has come to tell me
That a candidate who'd like to be my governor
Is crooked, or, worse, liberal.  The dreadful,
Abstract elements of life are blocked, and, with
This wind, I cannot even hear the subdivision's
Twits drive past my house.  I have the valley
And the sun, my beer, my stab at peace of mind,
And, strangely, shards of memories of other times
When I was, what's the word?, content.  I mean
To cling to all of this, to bask, and, when the need
Arises, rifle my refrigerator for more alcohol.