I look again, the thrill is gone,
Guiding buoys are in the mist.
How faint the words of that old song.
There’s nowhere I truly belong,
The path takes a turn and twist.
I look again, the thrill is gone.
Once, in the group I could belong,
Camaraderie we thought would persist.
How faint the words of that old song.
The offshoot so strange from the spawn,
Little harmony for it to co-exist.
I look again, the thrill is gone.
A blank stare does not catch on,
No helping hand to give assist.
How faint the words of that old song.
Will someone hand off the race baton?
Few people step forward as an altruist.
I look again, the thrill is gone,
How faint the words of that old song.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.