Brushing the dead leaves and sticky tree tears

from the green plastic garden table,

unused for years, while the college boys nearby

play ball games in the dusk-

their smiles only friendly; you know this of course-

generations sigh between their eyes and yours.

But still a cold rustle plays your ribs.

And what do you do with the old sole boot

you found on your way here via the box of letters

and dusted-off thoughts from friends you half remember?

Beautiful women, and funny too,

their goodness made you ashamed.

Still they slipped from your days,

which hang haphazardly

in the mothballed trunk of memories,

like this dream table in a long ago park

where the boys have gone silent.


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