In this old, cold, poisoned age,
Every tooth against the grain,
Every dream a suicide dream,
We are children without children.
We cannot imagine how our parents
Grew up without a backseat screen—
What did they do on road trips?
Grown big, we have stayed the same,
We who “find and capture pleasure,”
Happy warriors, stringing our captives
To our graves—their “joy and incense”
Devoured forever, like King Tut… and
Unto the most refined, the jeunesse
Doree, the cumulation of refined
Aesthetic experience defines us.
Us, not them—who knows
No history must remain a child;
Yet so must who knows not
His own place in history; so, a
Widower, ripped apart near fifty,
I take my own turn as Peter Pan.
The dogs bark. The caravan rolls on.
How otherwise would life emerge
From death? Don’t kill time—
I guarantee you will regret it.
A friend explains to my daughter:
“It’s a legitimate form of temporary
Polyamory—they call it ‘dating.’”
She is not super into this century—
Yet of course will have to live in it,
At least in its happy aristocracy:
Elbowed by children without children,
A bald and spotted gifted-school,
Whimsical and jaded, sterile and lovely
And smart and classy, our every whim
Satisfied by armies of gay robots,
Dominating a ruthless planet of orcs.