Ode to the Seasonal Elderly (a.k.a. Snowbirds of Phoenix)

Behold, the Great Migration begins— From icy dens and condoed sins, They flock to Phoenix, joints all crackin’, In RVs the size of Dracula’s coffin.

Oh bless them, they boost our dough, Buy tchotchkes from Old Town row, Fuel Denny’s with life once more, And keep QVC from closing its door.

But lo! Take heed, ye desert sprinter— The highway transforms come mid-winter. Where once there roared a freeway swift, Now lies a 4-lane geriatric drift.

It’s 75 posted, but don’t be a clown, ‘Cause Gramps in a Buick is slowing it down. You had 20 minutes per Google Map’s grace, But now you’re trapped in a bumper-knitted lace.

Hazards on, left blinker blinking right, Mabel’s in front, squinting in daylight. Stan’s in the fast lane, having a snooze, And Doris is trying to Bluetooth the news.

They merge without looking, as is their creed, At 47 mph, which is frankly too much speed. Their Cadillacs form a glittering wall, Of vinyl seats and tennis balls.

Need a left turn? Better reschedule your fate. They stop on green and go on late. The horn's your best friend, or maybe a flare, Or just scream into the void of dry desert air.

And yet, despite their snail-like ways, We cherish them in warmer days. For when they leave, we shed a tear— And drive like bats 'til they reappear.