Joe Grieco

Classic Rock

It’s like the start of a three-day weekend every time you wake up,

except you’re out of gas, the RV has a flat;

the dog is sick and the vet’s closed till Monday;

your bum knee on the fritz again so there’s nobody going for coffee.

They said retire: it gives you time to do what you always wanted.

You already did what you always wanted.

You’re paying for it.

Friends moved on to Arizona, to Texas, to Vegas.

Sure, some stayed here, pushing up California poppies,

or gone to ashes scattered out by the pier.

All of us children of Rock ‘N Roll.

As/because the music woke up when you were born, sweet and dirty.

As/because you nursed under the blanket of a backbeat.

As/because you now play the same damn songs, over and over and over,

absent casual drugs, recreational sex denied.

And you wish you still had time to spend,

to talk to somebody in the band,

about how happy you’re supposed to be,

you know, retired.