I’m lying on my hammock
staring up at a vast blue sky
when a solitary cloud floats by
with my old friend, Al, smiling,
reclining on his aching back.
Through tears in my eyes,
I see he’s still got a book in his hand.
A chronic Luddite, Al was never one
to adapt to modern technology.
He tears pages out of his book
and writes notes to me, sailing
them down to me on paper airplanes.
Not to worry about current volatility,
he advises—Berkshire Hathaway,
is the safest place to park your dough.
PS. He asks if I know anybody up his way,
order him some more warm Veal Scallopini.