The Good Old Days
Were Never Here
in the coffee shop I listen well
the old men spin tales
of finer days
when crime was low
jobs plentiful
trash picked up
streets cleaner
and every child
a testament
to good house training.
the world was simpler
and a great deal safer
when blacks couldn't vote
women didn't work
and wisdom white as
motel bed sheets.
old men live lives of omission
their prairie-land stories
of guts, gods and glory
paint over the promise
and pained of the sacrificed
our grandfathers are responsible
for great and terrible things.
i hold my tongue
maintain my manners
and wonder if selective memory
will strike my future grey hairs.
