Sixty–five and a Glass of Beer by Lynn Hoffman

The sticky Belgian beer smells of honey mixed with sweet garden dirt
In this bar where the music sounds like complaints from dull machines.
No question now — It seems that I have outlived rock and roll
  (emotion, observation, reminiscence)
and the Phone Company
  (charges reversed, call collect)
it seems likely that I will also outlive the newspaper
  (the ink on my father’s fingers)
and the music industry
  (I never liked them anyway)
I’m used to the idea that I outlived my parents
  (condescension, sentiment, brave moving on)
But I’m still cranky about outliving the Brooklyn Dodgers
  (oh Campy!, oh Duke! Oh Jackie!)
And I’ve never really swallowed the reality of outliving my dogs
  (Muscular Bill the Buddhist, consolation, childish eye–wetting)
I hate that I outlived my marriage
  (although at least one of us had to and maybe two survivors is better than one)
and I hope (dumb–assed hope) that I don’t outlive this one.

And now I think about the he’s and she’s that will outlive me and I wish them hops, not hope.
(the rhizomes rise, the hops bloom every year and mostly meet their grist)
and malt and germination and turning the starch to sweetness
and ferment and holding some of the bubbles inside.

And if anyone feels a little sad that he or she outlived me, and turns the clank of the new music down, well,

I’ll drink to that.

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