Our kids hate us—
that we can and they can’t,
That we know and they don’t,
that we’ve done and they haven’t—
Just like we hated our parents
and they hated theirs.
Every generation invents itself.
To seize the earth
They must first bury the last generation in it.
Sad and necessary.
has a lifetime lease on the theater.
And, when our last curtain falls,
we leave the stage to the understudies
With all the baubles and props we found there—
things bought with performance and talent—
Some ours, most left by our forebears:
houses, roads and bridges,
TV’s, and phones,
science and medicine
And poems and philosophy,
for those who are wondering,
To remind our kids,
from time to time,
That we were here…
that we loved them.
If we’re history—dinosaurs—
they can study us, learn from us,
Build on what we left them,
make everything theirs, for a while,
that we’ll embarrass
Or upstage them,
or ground them for a week.
A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.