singing “Cruel to Be Kind” for the 100th time

while hot girl jogs by

and visible panty line blinds the chaste mind

four seconds at a time

then back to mine:

the by gone rock of ages gone by.

And somehow, somehow,

it’s part of the Lord’s great design

that molecules and miracles

refine the generations as they resign

from youth and prominence

to age and retire.

But for now

“She’s got to be somebody’s baby, she’s alright,”

as her behind is tight

as she strides past the sight

of a homeless man’s plight.

He’s sweating to these oldies,

old shoes, old shorts, old wagon,

old shopping bag filled with old possessions.

And “the sun shines down on everyone”

the weak and the poor

the rich and the strong

the healthy and those squeaking by

the unrepentant sinner

and the unhappy believer.

And somehow, somehow

It’s the great Lord’s design

that molecules and miracles align

that the words we say: bless or curse

But here I am wasting words (maybe)

“Saturday in the park,

singing for a song.”