Child like toys in the hands of a twenty-something
Calling it art, nostalgia and product abandonment,
And now you’re calling it cool.
Like a rained-in lunch inside the class room
Playing heads-up seven-up, mad-libs,
And scribble too.
You’re too intelligentcia for me.
Twenty-odd years ago is not history.
I was hazy with the details,
The spiky hair and untucked clothes
Distracted me, if you had something unabashed to say
Beyond the toilet-bowl words on Christians
And Republicans and the anti-Christ,
I might have agreed with you, if I couldn’t get
Over your hair,
Queer-eye was so-last year.
We all hate Bush, too.
Nothing new.
Tell me again about your record collection
Because I really don’t care.
I’m imagining scanning the dial on the A.M. on the way home,
Hoping to catch the drone of a signal from some odd star.
Shut off the phone in case you call-