Across the Common, on a lovely May
day in New England, I see and hear
the Middle Ages drawing near,
bells tinkling, pennants bright and gay—
a parade of Morris dancers.
One plucks a lute. One twirls a cape.
Up close, a lifted pinafore
exposes cellulite, and more.
O why aren’t they in better shape,
the middle-aged Morris dancers?
Already it’s not hard to guess
their treasurer—her; their president—him;
the Wednesday night meetings at the gym.
They ought to practice more, or less,
the middle-aged Morris dancers.
Short-winded troubadours and pages,
milkmaids with osteoporosis—
what really makes me so morose is
how they can’t admit their ages,
the middle-aged Morris dancers.
Watching them gamboling and tripping
on Maypole ribbons like leashed dogs,
then landing, thunderously, on clogs,
I have to say I feel like skipping
the middle-aged Morris dancers.