by
Michael Dellert
in
a nostalgic
toy
store
in
New Hope, PA
hangs
a relic
of
my most ancient days
a
starship I owned once
its
decals still peeling off
as
I remember them
pieces
missing
lost
in the jungle of my backyard
which
became
the
endless universe
on
summer Sunday afternoons
My
sentimentality
on
sale
for
just nine. ninety-five
it
didn’t cost that much new
these
children hear the prepackaged
soulful
sounds of the seventies
watch
the fashions of someone else’s
memories
dazed
and confused
selling
themselves out
for
Gloria Gaynor’s eternal profit
when
they are old and grey
and
nodding by the fire
they
will remember
that
they did remember
a
past they never
could
have known
and
when they see
the
unyielding concrete
pressing
down
on
their too human
faces
when
the bills
and
dead end jobs
and
wasted years
and
wasted marriages
fence
them in
when
The Man
pummels
them
into
the machine
they
will mourn
the
legend
they
left stillborn
on
their table.
— med
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