lounging in nowstalgia

i never get carded anymore
too much gray at my temples
and in my beard

moving as I am towards the grave
as we all are
whatever machines we drive

or which ride us
grind us down so gradually
we don’t notice

we are no longer grooving
to the hip music
we were never groovy really

with our cassette mixtapes
and eight-tracks
so uncool

now we are
in the groove the rut
we said we’d never fill

yet so much happier
lounging on the couch
our sagging butts

on leather cushions
binge-watching Netflix
and sipping pinot noir

asking your spouse
to turn up the volume
because our hearing is going

or playing cards
hearts preferably
with friends

than going out to some
bar or club or lounge
sitting on stools or chairs

with tight plastic cushions
some symbol of youth
with our uncushioned butts

grinding hips
with your love
or your lust

the volume of the music
so loud
you must lean in close

colliding beautifully
on the dance floor
thus couching your love

to the beats
of the drum
machine

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the baker’s dozen of words of Wordle 278 at The Sunday Whirl.

Advertisements