When you were questioning heaven at six,
I was playing cowboys and indians with sticks.
In your teens, when you were reading New Age,
John D McDonald's fiction was my sage.
When I finally read Kerouac and Alan Watts
You'd lived in Sausalito, and had sat on their yachts.
Now I'm exploring these things in my head,
and you're telling books I should have read.
More often than not, I'll read a murder mystery,
while you're tackling more of philosophy's history.
Still I enjoy it when you share what's on your mind,
Though at times just keeping up leaves me in a bind.
But I sometimes I think that my little pen
can perhaps happen, only now and again
to do something I've always hoped that I might
Cause those wise eyes of yours to blink in delight.
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