The Death of American Idealism                                                                  12/19/19

My grandfather fought in World War One,

            My father World War Two,

And neither spoke of what they saw

            Or did in their long tours, where they went,

Who they met, who they killed.

My grandfather loved to play croquet,

            My father cards. Every Friday night

Grandfather came to our house for dinner,

            And afterwards, the old maple table was cleared

And they dealt the cards for gin rummy.

My father was good, my grandfather better,

            All the years of practice with his mill cronies,

Those nights after work honed his card-sharp skills,

            And he won time after time, and I watched from the sidelines

As my father made highballs, and there was much laughter.

They were optimists. They’d seen the worst that’s offered,

            Fought in trenches, fought on beaches, survived, and come home,

And they held some idealistic notions

            Of the importance of family, of right and wrong,

And they kept right on laughing, and smoking and joking,

            And lived their lives large, with compassion and humor,

And they loved their families, and lives,

            And their comforts, so hard earned.

 I miss them greatly, all of them now, in these

            Raucous end times, as we lurch toward oblivion,

In this rancorous world they’d not even recognize.

            Would they fight for this? Would they make their 

Great sacrifice, putting their lives on the line for this insidious

            And disjointed society?

“Gin!” grandfather would announce, laying down his hand,

            Adding up points. My father would laugh,

Take a sip of his highball,

            And shuffle the deck.