And I say unto you I say unto all, Watch—Mark 14: 37
There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear—John 4:18

Years of the Snake: 1905,’17,’29, ‘41,’53,’65,’77,’89, and 2001
1917, World War I, ‘29 the Depression, guns and butter ‘til victory’s won.
Then 1941 we were born, still infants, unaware of Pearl Harbor’s kamikaze Japanese.
M.S. who first called you Little Miss? Yes, Becky Ann, the third grade tease.
Alton, Tommy, and David felt E.Z.was Easy, but I live on, the only 61 year old man.
Al Ti Nus and bobby-soxers, going steady, falling in love, catching-as-catch can.

About snake year 1953, it was you in your house playing piano as I pedaled by.
Under your mother’s kitchen window...her irises gave a deep purple sigh.
The soft ripples flowing on nearby Indian Creek, a July day as I now think back.
Yes, an endless summer, fairground trotting horses round-and-round the track.

The summer of ‘64, we had the tenement apartment on the Lower East Side.
A third floor walk-up, I met you at Port Authority, from Chicago a long bus ride.
The Unisphere, our world’s fair F train, Michelangelo’s Pieta and everything more.
You slept on the twin bed box spring. I took the mattress and slept on the floor.
Snake year, February ‘65, how is it possible we stood on frozen Auschwitz sod?
Ira’s Chicago barber had survived, our horror held no terror, where was God?

1977, a January inauguration for Jimmy and Fritz, another year of the snake came to call.
Your mother talking to the Vice President in your home that summer or fall.
I visited you just after, staying at L’Enfant Plaza. After midnight, a shot of Maker’s Mark
Back in Manhattan, 666 Fifth, from my office I could see the Met in Central Park.

Twenty-four years later, September 11, 2001, horror and terror in this year of the snake.
Kamikaze pilots in‘41, now jihad hijackers, horror- terror, no difference to make.
I am no longer Easy as fetching-pail Jack. Marilyn, you were never Little Miss Jill.
You live in DC zip code 20008, not far from the Pentagon and Capitol Hill.
My son escaped his Twin Tower office, the terrorist bombing of 1993.
His mother and I had not spoken to him for two years, we were terrified you see.
In 1981 I had an office desk at One World Trade Center, Suite 7967.
In June I flew home, Dad was dying. I vowed to go with him...in two heaven.

February 1901 our fathers were born, the last century of the millenium had just begun.
If alive they both would be one hundred and one.
About snake year 1905, relative to Einstein saying, “God doesn’t roll dice.”
1941, 2001, Manhattan-DC snake eyes, Pearl Harbor, jihad kamikaze blink twice.
Hoosier nicknames, yours and mine, I miss you now, time’s not easy --even when found.
Snaking years 1941 through 2001, perfect love’s inbetweeness forever unbound.