Poetry Monday

It is Poetry Monday again, as organized by Rhian. This is an unfinished piece about growing up in the 80s.




Cold war kids grew up quiet
on monstered beds,
sucked satire from a British tit,
cowered before patriotism
even as our hearts lept.

We aged unwitnessed
between hippy Dad and hip hop kids
who passed the world,
one to the other,
over piggy's head

Walls fell. The monster now in the closet--
only we seem to see it;
who first knew doom, as children,
Not seeing it too late
or innured from birth

We live on, never blithe
but always a little chicken.
Suitcases, the estranged and winds
only haunt our darkest nights--
we still see the monster sometimes
from the corners of our eyes

And find we are known, if at all,
for empty fads of glam and greed
not our dark adapted eyes, and supine wills.
Even when the sky falls no-one will think of us;
old not before our time
but because of it.

Haven't seen the monster for a while
but stand, scotch in hand,
watching the curtains flap
over an open window
always ready to provide, the 'whimper'.