They were the young ones.

They were the young ones.

Fussed and preened over,

Entered into baby shows,

Photographed

Using box Brownies.

Black and white images

Of cheesy grins.

Knobbly knees

And bony shins.

Grandparents looking old

Before their time.

Wartime loss

Writ large across their faces.

Dressed just like their parents,

Sports jackets,

Grey flannel slacks,

A little too short,

Flapping around

Skinny ankles,

That learned to shuffle

All too soon

Into an easy chair.

Stuck in the corner,

Watching game shows

With the sound turned high.

As they waited to die.

They were the young ones.

Who danced like dervishes,

Drank till they dropped,

Listened to Dylan,

All night.

Waxed about

The meaning of things,

Played with life and

Dreamed.

With and without help.

Changed the world

In their own image,

And resented it.

They were the young ones.

Who sit in state,

Await their fate,

In retirement homes.

Paid for with

Insurance and property loans.

In too many ways

The sum of their days,

Much older then, than now.

Still thinking like children.

Remembering themselves,

Their world,

When they were young ones.