Winds Across the Cornfield

 For as long as there are whiskers

and tires bumping curbs,

they’ll be windsocks in the cornfield

directing all my words,

Tie shoes on the dance floor

is music to my ears –

quarters for the Jukebox

with songs I’ve heard for years,

When at last there’s no more whiskers

and Good-Years all are flat,

The winds across the cornfield

won’t remember all of that,

You and I will smile –

knowing that we tried,

It’s then you'll point at me and say,

"Hey, your shoes untied."