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.