I traipse through this meadow
of white noise battling petty desires,
fast realizing the folly of ancient wisdom.
The turn of phrase often serves me well.
If the muse smiles favorably, I can
inspire blushes with the best of them.
But modern love is a texted illusion
supplemented with emojis and filters
to create yet another layer of illusion
to add to this latest album’s collection.
See who sees what, who approves
or acknowledges, how many hits
before crisis of confidence emerges.
In quiet times I will scroll,
seeking solace but instead
reading of personal tragedy,
of trivial journalizing and
conversational salt sprinkled on
latest cause or current event.
It’s a caravan of bandwagons,
and I am barely aware of jumping on,
sliding downhill toward an
This is the world I must bequeath
to others: younger, faster, better.
While I observe rules of
she posts another perfect pose,
black dress as framing device
to backlit alluring half-smile,
a come hither acknowledgement
of nature’s given advantages.
Yet hours later she admits
her weariness at the sad plight
of older men appearing
on the periphery with
sad messengers from an outmoded past
whose present becomes blocked
from pursuing hopeful futures.
Is this really a better world?
I sometimes wonder.