and part of the swim team that practiced pre-dawn,
and mudskippered out to do push-ups and squats,
through the very last strains of Purple Rain, having
ogled again Darling Nikki (Steve’s babe), The Beautiful
Ones (I tacitly claimed), and Pete talking trash on
which one of the U kicked the other one’s ass, then,
my millennial child, I knew what music could do.
To be sure, I’d been raised by Bach and had already
asked for his Air in D Major to attend my grave, some
unannounced day in what would graciously be many
imaginations away. Baba O’Riley filled up the house,
then Going to California whispered me out. I made up
my own set of keys, blessed by some Ghost Riders
in the Sky: I founded The Rustlers, their 300 songs
no iTunes can buy (yet some you’ve since played).
You’re journeying through and finding your style,
my millennial child. You coined your band’s name
and forever we’re better to Get Lost in the great gift
of music, beg for more rain to scour a Super Bowl
stage, cry for the ones who feel bullied by Time,
swim in the pool you'll choose (Minnetonka an
option, if merely a splash on the way). You can tell
I’m part drowned in this news. What can one do?
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