At some point, all men will sound foolish;
saying once-wise things, sounding out-of-touch.
What do old men know about latest trends,
the Apps on my phone, when to hit the DMs?
Will I wrinkle young brows by simply informing,
as the tech of my trade leaves me behind?
Will I lose ground at the pace of my hairline,
taking a path that I cannot hide?
I must crack this cycle of the foolish,
the wizened that use words of the young
and only draw sneers from the fresh-faced,
with idioms for a sphere all their own.
I cannot know the new world of the young,
for I live in one well-discovered
and I will be a fool when I peer through their eyes
and speak as though I feel what they see.
This poem was posted for the previous week’s poetry prompt, A Title that Delivers.