Along the street I take me blithely;
I swing light-heartedly and lithely.
The cares that bother every day
Are at this moment put away.
The troubles of the daily grind
Are happily a mile behind.
The air is fresh; the trees are green;
A small bird sings away unseen.
Right now I do not care who collars
Tax-assassinated dollars.
This zestful walk, this picker-upper,
My sole concern–and what’s for supper!
by Ray Romine Monday, February 25, 1952
