I awoke with a start,
Shook the fog from my head,
And turned…

Your gaze met mine,
Wide and pale like the full moon,
Your lip quivered
And our stubborn punk-rock pride
Dammed our damned tears

        The day we had feared
        The day we had denied

We sat upright from our rest,
From our cold, nightmare-sweat,
We chipped the sleep from the corners
Of our squinting eyes,
        The way the clock’s pointed hands
        Had chipped our resolve,

We laid to the dirt our youth
And our Germs t-shirts,
Laid to the dirt our riots,
Our philosophers, and our ideals,

And we knew we had lost

As if compelled by some distant and ancient god I cannot name, 
We spoke in unison those hallowed words:

“Pickleball actually looks pretty fun.”