After the Elders Die

All those stories we so loved are cut adrift. No one
No longer knows if any one is true. Grandpa's dead,
His brothers, too. His tales of folly and bravado
Circulate among the kids, but we weren't there
To verify. Instead, at first, at least, we listened,
Rapt, as they explained how cars could fly
From granite precipices, landing upon railroad
Rights of way 200 feet below, yet all the knuckle-heads
Inside somehow survived, and came to town,
And went to sleep in their own beds, and food
Fell onto filthy floors, and horses reared, and men
Who'd grown up there, within the wilderness,
Grew weary of autumnal carnage, so they set
Their rifle sights to always fire overhead,
To send the deer and elk, which should have
Been suspended back at home, butchered,
Gutted, bounding toward thickets, clearly
Out of range. So much of it makes little
Sense, but there's no one remaining
To at least pretend to know the truth.
We meet to share the treasured stories,
Too tame to provide our own, and circle,
Shaking every hand, a generation now adrift,
No longer capable of saying, even seeing,
What is true.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 66 times
Written on 2018-07-24 at 03:08

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