Shhh

Shh, step lightly, here's three
middleaged friends sharing a hotel room,
recovering from the second day of a long
weekend. They are happy, or happy enough
in the relativity of middleage: they have conversed
long and fluently in that language
they are well versed in: Middle Adolescence;
they have discussed that novel, Canada
by Richard Ford (narrated by a middleaged man);
they have driven over a bouncing beach and swum
in flouncing cold waves in the hurrying sun
beside the charging rubbersuited body-surfing
truly young ones whose laughter has not
intimidated (nay, but has been partaken of
as a refreshing draught, a bonus); they have
driven the twisting, knotted roads they will drive
again and again, as this has given them pleasure;
they are not done yet, not even sleeping, but
resting, letting whatever sinks sink in, so shhhh.