the formative years

remember the sixties,
you say to the whipper
snapper who doesn't
even remember
the eighties,
the early sixties
before all hell broke loose
when Dylan went electric.
no, grand pop, they
say. tell me about them.
hop on my knee you
say, tapping your good knee,
and let me tell
you about it. you rock
back in your chair
and stare off into
the distance
past the cell phone tower
and a drone hovering
carrying a package
or a bomb, who knows.
there was black
and white tv, you say,
with three or four channels
that you had to get up to change,
no internet, one
phone on the kitchen
wall, black with a twenty
foot cord.
the mail came twice a day.
you went to the movies
for entertainment.
milk and bacon and eggs
were good for you.
a man in a uniform,
driving a truck would leave
them on your porch
in the morning.
you could smoke everywhere,
all the time
even if you were having
a baby. babies even smoked
back then.
doctors drank like fishes.
you went to the bookstore
to buy books,
the record shop
for records. you spent
hours at
the arcade playing
pin ball machines
that only cost a nickel.
only sailors and convicts
had tattoos.
dogs ran around without
leashes. it was okay to shoot
birds and squirrels out
of trees with your
bee bee gun.
movie stars were movie
stars. people wore real
clothes, dresses,
coats and ties, polished shoes,
not pajamas all day,
or sweat pants with flip flops.
you read the newspaper or time
magazine, for the news or
turned on the tv at
six o'clock for all you
needed to know about a world
that was more interesting
than dangerous.
okay, okay, there's more,
but my knee hurts, hop
off and run along and play
now. I need a nap and a
sedative.