Games at the lake stymie the children
Grown up now, with their own children.
Four days out across beautiful
Boredom, beached canoes.
The wake of the beaver swimming home
I can almost taste the cheddar.

The pockets are empty. No lockets
Of lint that mommy always cleaned out.
Until you had to do it yourself,
She hoped, until the equation of life
Malfunctioned, and she died.

Coat hangars in the closet
Stare glaring at you impetuously.
Knowing the ort of reason is here.
Foaming at the mouth of absurdity
While the country moans over broken toys.

We’re just getting older, to the point
Where bones freeze up without
The lubrication of family consent.

We say, uh-oh, they are eloping
To their immense satisfaction,
And we turn into statues
To the applause of foliage
Down by City Hall.