Decades

The decades

When we think of the decades,

  the 50s or the 70s,

  for example,

or any act in the program;

we talk up a backdrop for the stage,

with all the players frozen

in time. 

  Costumate.

  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.

  Of course.

  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 

preordained.

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?

  Decades.

The first decade is,

no doubt.

The middle isn’t until the last is.

Then it will be too late.

  Until then

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,

  I’m content.

And so we are.