The sunlight won’t take no for an answer.
It slams in the window, it slams in the door.
It slams open a door in the floor.
It slams at the wind like a slowmoving cow
to get moving, get moving, get moving now:
Make the young pine bow like a dancer,
and waver, and bow, and waver, and bow—
make waves in the grass that hurry like rabbits.
It makes waves in the wind and waves in my habits.
All of that yellow and color and blue without scruple,
and dabble and dollop and rinse and stipple—
it makes for a wideness of vision and stringence of pupil.
It bothers my hair and it bothers my brain.
It refuses to give me the time to explain.
You are expected to get out and ramble,
and you’d better do while you’ve got the chance or
you’ll never be good for a guitar or gamble
or bankshot or bottle of bourbon again, sir!
© Jack Butler