quaint memories

there's no cure

for this, no balm or pill

that will

ease this rage,

this unbridled fury

boiling

over

in a world gone mad,

civility,

politeness, decorum,

a quaint

visage 

of the past.

there is no tipping

of the hat,

no

grace,

no apology

which makes us elders,

like

generations before us,

linger

in shadows,

sighing, depleted

and sad.