Today's poem is by Dean Young


I find myself more and more among
those marginal characters who seem intent
on getting nothing done, decommissioned hussars,
jilted maids-in-waiting or fauns, even,
all woolly from the waist down realizing
their eon's over, no one believes in them
any more and if you asked, Heck, they'd say,
we never much believed in ourselves.
It all happened so long ago, the storming
of the prison, the invention of happy gas,
the marriage of the sun and moon, epic
swings of ballyhoo and swoon. Suddenly
a lady would need her petticoat removed,
the band would play until the fuzz arrived,
and the fairies were almost safe in piano bars.
But the platitudes of any age will rot
as they are recycled and must be shoved aside
to allow the next loud, thunking youth
its anthems and wars, its splatter.
Such has been muttered since the end
of time and will be muttered more while
the world stays stitched with golden rays
and each must find her own way out.

Copyright © 2011 Dean Young All rights reserved
from Conduit
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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