Memorializing
# 51,
but
a blog post
overly
telling,
and
excessively
revealing.
A poem,
yes,
a poem
is illusory
and
concealing.
Concealing
like
gray hair,
hidden under
highlights
and lowlights.
And skin lotions
and miracle
potions
slathered
on wrinkled
sagging skin.
There were
the dearest
of old friends,
and a spattering
of new,
and others
I no longer
imagine
sharing
a park bench
with
like
bookends.
Yes, Paul,
♪how terribly
strange to
be seventy ♪.
Missed chances
at
possible
true love
and
what-if
sliding doors.
A drive-by
this house
and that house,
and this school,
and that school,
and waiting
in a parking lot
for church bells
that never rang.
The barrel-chested
seagulls,
who screeched
and fought us
for French fries
and clam bellies
at Overton’s,
and a
disappointing
Main Street
that was
unremarkable
without
the legendary
pink house,
Sally,
and
Oscar’s,
and all the
other places
long gone
like
youth.
Some clicks
pleasantly
surprised,
while
other cliques
were still in
social play,
a reminder
that
some things
never change.
We dressed
for the 70s
at almost 70,
which wigged
some of us out.
And then came
an
apologetic
confession,
54 years
too late,
for a
jock-joining
quartet.
The
exceptionally
talented
band
concluded
with
Forever Young,
if only
it was
so.
And
in the
end,
the
goodbye hugs
were tighter
and longer,
just in case.