I found a vintage Heinlein on the shelf,
a yellowed paperback with tiny print.
I pulled it down to entertain myself,
and read 200 pages with a squint.
I’ve recommended it to kids and friends
without rereading what I loved when young.
But now I can’t abide the voice, the ends
so bald, the means bereft of tone or tongue.

While later Heinlein books proclaim his slant,
I see his bias smeared in pulp now, too.
Receptive to nostalgic charm, I can’t
identify a phrase that’s fine or true.
I finished it last night. The mystery
is whether I lacked taste or memory.