Poem for Wednesday and Homestead Farm Animals

The Good Old Days
By Dick Flavin

Whenever I need a good cry
I stop and think
Of when the Sox were on the rocks
And how they’d stink
I’d take some glee from misery
I confess
And what is worse, I miss the curse
And the stress

I see Billy Buckner bending
And all our hopes are ending.
The ball is rolling through
His legs before our gaze.
And that horrible truth
When we learned they sold Ruth
Those were the good old days.

I see Bucky Dent of all guys
The weakest of the small guys
That cheesy little homer
Floating through the haze.
And my heart is at risk
They forgot to sign Fisk
Those were the good old days.

I know it’s not pretty to wallow in pity
There’s nothing of value one can gain.
Then all of a sudden I see Don Buddin
And again I’m awash in wondrous pain
(Is everybody crying?)

I see Grady Little snoring
While Yankee runs are scoring
Pedro’s out of gas
But in the game he stays
And there’s Slaughter’s mad dash
Another late season crash
Those were the good old days

Oh I’d complain and I’d beef
But I miss the grief
Of those good old days.

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Tuesday was a magnificent fall day, sunny and not too warm, and I got to enjoy a lot of it outdoors. I met Kay for lunch at Tara Thai, something we haven't done since February 2020, and we ate outdoors by the lake, something I can't remember when we last did. Afterward I walked around the lake, which has a new, bigger playground near the carousel, then I came home and took a walk with Paul when we both finished work/chores. 

Three of the six people who regularly watch Voyager on Tuesday nights couldn't come this week, so instead of watching an episode, I chatted for a couple of hours with the two who could, always a delight. Then we watched the delightful end of the Dodgers game in which the Dodgers scored four runs in the bottom of the 8th, and the atrocious end of the Red Sox game in which the Astros scored seven runs at the top of the 9th. Homestead Farm animals: