Sometimes it feels easier to throw my younger generation
in with my older generation
and walk away,
as quickly as possible,
without drawing undue attention to my own eagerness
to disappear into blues of love’s last kinder memories.
I wonder why
it seems they either want to kill each other
or they can’t eat up enough of each other.
Nothing too much in-between,
which is more what I get
in-between these past and future generations.
In my own situation,
this older generation has become all too relentlessly white,
while my own kids are more of a brown sepia rainbow
of polyculturing color mix
of browns and whites with ruminating blues.
My kids are sure their white grandparents were aliens,
but never known,
too far away.
But, their brown skin grandparents
speak with fluent nourishing food,
good-news song and blues
of love and hated mistrust,
wariness of violence.
They sing brown stories of blues
fogging up from steamy love,
for without love’s heat,
no blue-souled warmth
to sing and scold their bratty grandkids,
cherished as whom we have become together,
contentious in this time