Poetic License: Sailing to Sanibel
(With grave apologies to W.B. Yeats)
This is an island for old men: the young
In one another’s way, snowbirds on the tees,
X and Y generations— each with its song,
The CROW sanctuaries, the cruiser crowded seas,
Compete for winter sunshine all day long,
While whatever was is worn, forgotten or just lies —
Enjoying the last of ageing intellect,
Awaiting final monuments and neglect.
An aged man is just a paltry swing,
Pressed khaki shorts on stockinged sticks, unless
Grandkids come to clap and cling, then loudly sing
For every gift and game in Toys-R-Us.
Now there is sailing school, and studying
Monuments of charts and Doppler effects
Through Caloosahatchee we have come
To Southwest Florida’s New Byzantium.
O geezer gurus yearning to unretire
As baby boomers crowd us in the fall,
Come and relight your fires before you tire
Of golf and tennis swinging at a ball.
Consume your hearts away; let old desire
Be rescued like a wounded animal;
Now that Viagra is, ingather ye
The artifice of new virility.
Once back with Nature we will gladly take
Our body parts from any artificial thing,
Wear Rolexes such as Swiss goldsmiths make
Of stainless steel and gold enameling,
Press close to remotes to keep ourselves awake,
Re-read the Golden Bough and start to sing
To Sanibel, the New Byzantium,
That what we thought was past — again will come.