In The Old Days

In the old days, we drove
beat-up cars that could
barely make it up these hills.
We pressed hands to the dash, grimaced
push, with gritted teeth, and cheered
when we sputtered to the top.


In the old days, I patched and
stitched, drove needles through layers
of fabric, to get one more winter out
of that favorite pair of pants, the ones
I’d coveted and saved for. Whirled thread
in patterns, fanciful and practical; the two
whose twain could just so meet.

And now those hills are just hills
easily negotiated, though we pay
through the nose for the ease
of our existence. A life of leisure
that we work our existence for, each day
a little sleepier by sun’s set, each day
our minds wondering a bit at our excess.

I want to be poor with you, dragged down
by hard work and battered hands. I want to feel
full by what we can and cannot accomplish.

Tonight the sun has set beneath sparkling lights
and chesire grin, a view afforded by this devil’s
deal with what we are. It is so pretty here, but what
are we reckoned for, a year of fullness, a decade of
cushion, a lifetime of wonder at what
we have become.