Where are the ones in the suits of gold,
those second lookers who’d whiplash our tender necks,
the heart beaters who’d burst our chests and stop our breaths,
head wound us all like some legion of the damned,
make us screech the tunes of our untried lines
from the south side sands and the windswept east,
the north shore waves and west side rides?
How they all rush back in dim memory
of a time that seems just right back
thumb over your shoulder then.
And who are these ones who’ve replaced them now,
who assumed their youth and held its place
for as long as the turning of the next day’s page
or a clock’s tick-tocking sound to fade?
It’s this generation, the last generation says,
nostalgic for the burning bright of yesterday
as this one will too soon be for the next one day.