Think of it as a shadowy dive 

with near-sighted, weary players on stage,

arthritic rockers barely fretting

chords once familiar. 

It could be an exercise room 

at the Marriott in some halfway town,

or a nudist beach with a space for workshopping 

strengths & weaknesses of geniuses.

Picture them sipping bourbon, 

walking parallel treadmills, 

brushing sand from their thighs.

What do they discuss? Not shared glory. 

Perhaps they talk about bad investments,

how it feels to be stung by a bee, 

what roadside stop 

really has the largest ball of twine. 

I suspect they never mention poetry.

They prefer weather or sports. “Lovely day,” 

they say. “Can you believe the Pirates won?”

They listen to their favorite songs, then dance. 

They have joined the Fraternal Order of Forgetting.