Baby Boomers

don’t we love to talk
about what explosions we were
how we flared rose and tumbled
leaving the grave earth
for our moments

then coming back hard into her
broken
the breath sheared out of us
unashamed
unapologetic

what fools we are
to think
those were our best days
common little shits
that we were

nothing we did
had never been done
nothing we did was anything more
than what millions
of other explosions were doing

all those craters look alike
from forty years out
and I’m not sure the earth forgives us
but we love to talk
about colors and sounds

though we never speak
of the shaking and breaking
of those who never came up from those holes
we’d put so proudly into
the landscape

(and refuse to admit
even to ourselves
and even today
that a lot of the music
sucked)

how many settled to earth
after their blasts
and did the expected
conforming
while pretending otherwise

how many settled to earth
as ash
dead enough to never trouble
anything again
except when we mention them

like tonight
when over Scotch and kind bud
their names came up
and we felt that sneaky envy
for those who never became — this