RETIRED TEACHERS, INDEPENDENCE DAY

try to fuck with
the word
the brush
the melody
after a lifetime
of compromise.
Their spirits,
if they started
with any,
have been beaten
to a nub
by a perfect illusion
fed
by their own
delusions.

Their words
are weak,
too mannered,
safe;
their paintings
thin
& boring;
their sounds
murdered
by age; they now
try to make sense
out of their lives' chaos
not realizing
that chaos has always had
its own sense.
They are only astute
at remembering
their file numbers
and monthly
pensions.
Most, deserve
no better.
Fear
dictated most
of their choices;
and fear
dictated their antipathy
toward the kids
they taught.

Still,
I've been lucky,
to have met a few
who catered
a sweet mix
of insanity and light;
who knew
my eyes
took in
their legs
and hiked their skirts higher;
who knew my despair
about being alive
in my young cage
and fed me the raw meat
of ideas
and their opposites
which
allowed me
joy
of a kind
and opened up
ways
and
most importantly
exits.

On this day,
I lift a glass
to them--
the good ones,
the glad ones,
the mad ones,
the soul spent ones--
before, now, forever;
tonight
and
always.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2010