the gentle splash

they sell their last house.
the sign gets hammered into
the yard.
time
has caught up
with them.
the parade of renters
is over. the painting,
the electric
and plumbing
is too much now
to deal with.
they lived there once
in the sixties.

bean bags and lava lamps.
throw rugs
and water
beds. the rooms were
full of smoke
and music,
Hendrix and Joplin,
the beatles,
the stones. books on
zen, on god, the poetry
of Ginsberg,
Frost and Whitman.


Dylan when Dylan was forever
young.
how quickly youth fades.

they're slow now, whitened
by time
the steps are steep,
the sidewalks crumbling
and too hard to navigate.
the lights too dim to read
anymore.

to a warmer climate they go.
to eat, to drink,
to bathe in the warm light
of the deep south,
to finish out the years
with a gentle splash
then swim.