Teenagers don’t call me “dude,”
they call me “sir.”
I stopped Doing the Dew and now
I’m Doing Seltzer.
Crunching Grape Nuts for a nutritious
Hunching at the top of the stairs,
I pause to take rest.
More like Generation I Need Specs
More like Generation Too Tired for Sex
Relics, of a forgotten age,
when, despite of our rage,
we were rats in a cage.
Now we’re mellow mice
mastering mazes for a wage.
We’ve turned the page
on that pumpkin smashing stage.
Loud music outside making me mad.
Somehow, all of a sudden, I’m somebody’s dad.
When I take strolls, I’m rocking Dr. Scholl’s
My style dovetailing with that of Bob Dole’s
Instead of blasting Nirvana and packing bowls
I’m looking for a sleek pair of khakis at Kohls.
I saw the best minds of my generation.
Witness their waistlines
expanding without cessation.
Move into their parents’
basements without hesitation.
Swallowed into the vortex of
smart phone communication.
Become nostalgic at the latest iteration
of National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.
Gone are the days when I try something deadly.
I just sit and cry and eat a fruit and nut medley.
There’s no Living La Vida Loco anymore.
When there are diapers to change and bills to ignore.
Relegated to the sidelines in a
culture obsessed with youth.
Our relevancy Lincoln and society Booth.
I search in vain for something which redeems.
A dam to stop the flow of ocular streams.
Then scrolling down my Facebook,
there is an update which gleams.
One of those “ You Know You are a
90s Kid When” Memes.
Reflected by the computer screen,
the face of this dude-come-sir beams.
There is at least a little solace for us hapless
has-beens, it seems.