Arlo's not home

there we were
mostly white-haired
flower children
making our last stand
with Arlo
strumming his guitar
singing as if there wasn't a cloud
in the sky
and peace had been given a chance

but it's not Greenwich Village
circa 1960 something
when music was free as
love and we were hungry
for
Mom's apple pie
before the dikes burst
in New Orleans
and the economy
bit the dust
we were younger then,
young with arrogance
and defiance,
we lived,
oh, how we lived
before Alice closed the
door, and we went home
just before the rain
started pouring,
40 years after
the original moonwalk,
when Dylan sang with Joan
in a field of dreams
while
Viet Nam, Nixon napalm
choked with bitter truth
and
PBS, Wall-Mart,
were born
with higher purpose
and the green heart of  Ireland
was bleeding,
even though death was abolished,

we've come a long way my friend,
on this journey of self-discovery,
and we wonder what world we'll leave
for our children's children,
who will inherit the earth
when we're not home anymore.