When I was young, a quarter bought
a double bill of matinee.
My parents’ recollections taught
the value of a dime; I thought
how “cents-able” back in their day.

In time I wed; we sought a house.
Our parents marveled at the price.
“No central heat?” we heard them grouse.
“They’re clueless,” commented my spouse;
we didn’t think about it twice.

Our turn would come; our kids matured
and shopped for their own residence.
They showed us listings with absurd
ideas of value. No one heard
us stammering at gross expense.

Each cohort has its culture, say
historians, of music, art
and fashion. Doesn’t money play
as separator too? The way
we estimate tells us apart.