I have ruffled petticoats older
than you, my otiose offspring,
with no one to left inculpate
but your maternal grandparents.
My, they were a pair of japes,
short-lived and filled with fluff.
There is a balm, of course
there is, a way to rise above
this square dance do-si-do
out of a turn about's fair-play
excursion into indulging you:
too much love, too long time.
It was not for me, a spindle
turned smooth by the chase
for the safer road, a grind
toward some vanishing point,
wrought wonky at their hands,
I was young and disinclined
to hear Timewise, it was jangle-
as all the addled ducks scattered,
their late parliamentary laws askew,
consistent order devalued
as this year's model driven off
the lot, new car scent gone too soon.