Old Guard
David Stephenson

I went into a bar last week—

a rare event, a special treat—

and saw a little stage set up

with drums, a mike, and two guitars.

Time passed. I had a sip of beer.

At length the evening’s band appeared,

plugged in, tuned up, and said, “Oh yeah,

we’re Skinhorse,” and began to play.

They had a basic three-chord style,

sped up and highly amplified—

the venerable Wall of Sound.

They sang of superficial love.

The sweet strains triggered me to think

about my boyhood, blandly spent

in dull and distant Illinois

a quarter century ago.

The music then was much the same.

We all liked records, knew by name

the members of a dozen bands.

I think I thought of them as friends.

As with the boy, so with the man.

Since then, a lot of dusty sand

has funneled through the hour glass.

But I still listen to this stuff.

I thought I might grow out of it,

find something more appropriate,

like jazz, I guess, or violins.

But now I fear the cause is lost.

I looked around the evening’s bar.

I was the oldest there by far.

Well, so what. I figured they

would take me for the janitor

if they even noticed me,

which if I sat quietly

they probably wouldn’t, not for long.

Either way no one would care.

I could even talk to them,

tell them some tales from way back when

about all the old bands I’d seen

when nobody had heard of them…

then in a flash I sensed the truth,

that small, still voice: These innocent youth

did not get all dressed up tonight

to shoot the breeze with Father Time,

so I decided I should bolt

before that stupid urge took hold.

I cashed out, left too big a tip,

and left. The barkeep waved good-bye.

Outside, my mind was soon engaged

with thoughts more fitting for my age,

like Where are all my old friends now?

or What would you change if you could?

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David’s notes: “This is an old poem, first published in Slant in 1999. I was about forty then, and from the text it appears I thought I was old, which I find amusing now. The poem recounts a visit to a bar called Alvin’s in Detroit, to see a band called Skinhorse. I remember that they had a bed sheet with ‘Skinhorse’ spraypainted on it as a backdrop, and that I was drinking Stroh’s long necks. Due to my older brother, I was a big Who fan in high school, but when I started college in Boston in 1977, I turned into a punk rock fan. I loved going to the clubs there to listen to loud and fast music instead of doing my schoolwork. I still listen to that type of music now; it’s the source of the thumping rhythm in most of my poems. I used to feel sheepish about my adolescent musical taste, but now I don’t, since my own kids are in their thirties and are still playing video games.“

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David Stephenson is a retired manufacturing engineer from Detroit, and the editor of Pulsebeat Poetry Journal. His new collection, Secret Dance, is forthcoming from Cyberwit.net

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Image credit: eBay

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Old Guard David Stephenson

Old Guard
David Stephenson