These days I watch Southern California surfers dressed in
suits,
picking up an overcomplicated brew.
A beverage formerly known as coffee.
These days I see connoisseurs sampling brick red Merlot,
Deciphering cinnamon notes,
Outside, a man hit a plastic drum into a groovy frenzy,
reinventing funk music.
His craft dissipating into the sidewalk.
These days artists and peacemakers
are berated while the succinct phrase
and small talk replace conversations.
But then a stroll at 9 AM
with Norwegian bands rifling a jagged melody,
drowns out the noise and changes everything.
These days I feel great, finding that spark in connections.
These days….
Like Maugham wrote in that tome of his
You can’t write about happiness.
