OLD SCHOOL
Ideals, so simple, in that slice of time
war babies were hatched, Rockwellesque
imprints that don’t fit the hydra-headed,
loose ends of our contemporary minds
looking for the quick and convenient,
something new to do. No old hats left
to wear outside, no black or white
designations, even the Snidelys have
shaved the look in their eyes. It is easy
to wander off to work alone, let the mind go
to make its fortune, to face the Herculean
with golden sword, red kerchief slung
with enough for the long way back
renewed, with something done – a living
art within the shell of the more mundane.