Last Chance at Redemption

Stucco walls are never flawless.
Running hands over roughness and touching
the art of humanity upon elders' faces.
Deep trenches have stories to tell.
Chasing dreams of the late 1940s-50s,
when parents were born to war-torn grandparents,
and brass tunes were always a golden memory.
Skirt twirling oldies with a dash of salt and pepper.
Red rose lipstick and soldiers dressed crisp, away
and forgetting the Mrs. home alone in bed.
Where bourbon speaks and cigarette holders need filling.
Spilling burlesque lies from dance moves,
mincing minds around curvy thighs and lingerie.
Gin and tonic with a twist.

Now, in a time where current politics could never represent
the epitome of the then, and war generations in close passing
lower their heads and wish that money had heart,
and their grandchildren could save the world.
Their one last chance at redemption is left
for stories told at the dinner table, and memories
not as sharp as years before have left lasting
impressions of gratitude for a generation that
is all, but gone.  Fists clenched.  Hands to chest.
Has it always been this regretful?