pigtails,
he in
shorts and sandals,
and Indian
vest,
limping.
a guitar nearby.
a piano with broken keys,
years
gone by unplayed.
together watching
tv while
the grandchildren
with their
electronic
baby sitters in hand
are on the floor,
at their feet.
once,
they sang and played
in some
field, on some stage,
in some band.
Woodstock, maybe.
the times
have never
let go of them,
nor they of the times.
the memory of applause
has never faded.
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