In Which A Lad Is 43

Before the sunset, in the gloaming, from
The batwing doors you stepped. Of course I knew
'Twas you, but for a moment I played dumb.
Those years were painful; I'll have naught to do
With them. But you saw me, have no regrets,
And said hello. And you, dear boy, whose name
Is childhood, stand, all grown-up, quite well-met,
And in your prime. Where others at this same
Stage hid their greys and wrinkles, you just wear
Them like they fit. I hope I can as well.
Life's long yet, and we've burdens yet to bear
Unknown to those who fight their age. I'll tell
You this: you comfort me, just standing tall
And nodding, taking it for good and all.

In Which I Muse On "Silent Communication"

An eyebrow twitch, a slump, can say so much,
As can a tone of voice, a squint, a moue.
But only if one sees it and, as such,
Has grown up watching for this kind of clue.
Do fluent texters even know they miss
Ironic looks or hostile postures when
They tune out conversations "to get this
One message" in a meeting? This has been
Cast in the Wall Street Journal, just today,
As something Generation Y must learn
To deal with, but I'm not so quick to say
That it's just "those durn kids" worth our concern
In this regard. Attention is sliced thin
In everybody's life. Look ye within.