Anthem
Requiem for an Age
I wonder what songs they’ll write about our days?
What rising chords, when struck, will bring these days to mind?
What anthem will stand for us?
The stage is set.
Audience and players,
assembled
await the cue.
Is it curtain call or,
opening scene?
No matter, it is a glorious fall.
Listen! They’re playing our song.
Harried, hurried actors without a script,
calling out for lines.
Propmaster behind the scenes
using whatever is on hand;
sending players out with,
butter knives for spades,
walking canes for telescopes,
umbrellas for fallout shelters.
In the pit, the orchestra
crashes, clashes out
one headline after another
more blare than news.
Out of all this, some bard
will find the melody,
set notes dancing across a score
so those that hear will remember,
“Yes, that was the time,
when …”
and, nodding like the guests at an Alzheimer reunion,
we’ll all agree to what’s not been said.
How will we be recalled?
What image brought to mind?
Whatever symbol endures, painted
with a yellow wash of remembrance,
one part sunshine promise, and
one part, the deeper ochre of regret.
