The old man twitched his brow, <br />Blasting music, jarring his ears, <br />Endurance threatened, he rose from his armchair, <br />Dragging weary limbs, he staggered away. <br /> <br />His grandson in cargo jeans, <br />Gyrated and swivelled to the jazz, <br />Drumming beats drove him crazy, <br />His waist swayed in rollicking jig. <br /> <br />To ease his growing annoyance, <br />Withdrew the oldster to his solitary space, <br />His eyes, searching for his betel box, <br />Tucked away under his grubby cot. <br /> <br />Groping in dark, he looked high and low, <br />And in every nook of his dingy room, <br />His shocking gaze soon espied, <br />His betel box freshly polished. <br /> <br />A flash of terror beat across his soul, <br />No more value than an antique piece! <br />His betel box – made a show piece. <br />What would he be – a shock piece? <br /> or a mock piece? ! <br /> <br />The old man closed his eyes, <br />His hands folded in ardent prayer. <br />His lips parted feebly in a whisper, <br />“Hare Ram! Hare Krishna…. <br />Hare…..”<br /><br />Valsa George<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/generation-gap-6/
