So it has been said to me, over the course of my winters,
by several older men, with sad eyes, kind manners, and, often, lives
rough around the edges. And they’re right.
Better than right: they live their creed,
there when the lights need hanging, with their power tools,
there at the store, peering at the labels.
They make their contribution to the economy of childlike wonder
without withdrawal, and without complaint,
lift their glasses and return to quietness.
Still, I would, if I could, see the fizz rockets go off again in their eyes, too.