For Don, Paul, and Michael

Packed into arenas,
dicks hard to a man.
We find the evening’s heroes
rocking in a van

just outside the stadium
for a reunion show,
wind rustling through the window
where long hair used to grow.

Fingers throw some metal;
the beer guts dare to hope
of getting through their space-out
on their children’s dope.

Heavy metal thunder
and Frampton Comes Alive!
The ghost of Sammy Hagar
is driving fifty-five

but listening to the station
where the oldies may be gold
but Ozzy still knows the lyrics
and rock is never old,

and where your dad’s still got it,
and the compliment’s sincere.
The taste is cool and current,
the latest trends are clear—

a new car like the old one,
though maybe not as good,
the same old sputtering engine
underneath the hood

but painted in new colors,
and if they’re off no grids,
they’re sure that it’s a winner
with the cooler kids.