by Richard LeDue.
The 1960s and 70s are dead
like an old drunk who killed
their liver to save their heart,
only to die of in a car accident
while complaining about seatbelts
to an empty whisky bottle,
and the 1980s still alive,
pissing into a bag and calling
the nurse “Midge,”
which leaves death a little scared
to ruin something it can’t match,
and the 1990s forgets to call,
too busy with a career
that helps all the gone years
seem further away
and the 2000s can’t remember
who they want to blame,
the past or the future,
and the 2010s barely a memory,
as if a name that needs repeating.