When we think of the decades,
the 50s or the 70s,
or any act in the program;
we talk up a backdrop for the stage,
with all the players frozen
Dressed for their roles.
We know who “did it”, of course,
and why they did it, and why we did
what we did, when we did it.
Not in boredom, but by a renegade
rectitude after the fact.
Our life, paragon in each chapter,
in our book of life. We
could have done it no other way,
although we sometimes question
if we could have;
but no, no, of course not.
In decadence par excellence
we assume that our tenure of each ten years
to be, or in retrospect, to have been
Do you see my decades?
Or do you see your decades?
Which of us, being in the other’s decade,
are painted on the backdrop scene,
or maybe one of the main players?
The first decade is,
The middle isn’t until the last is.
Then it will be too late.
the beautiful collection of linen bookmarks
strike a decade deal with us.
We reverse the opera glasses,
and fall down the well of time,
bouncing on the decade-dented steps.
We see flashes.
We see scenes.
We see the bruises of
the decades glow again
powdered by the rouge of I’m,
And so we are.