Two times a year we meet and do our thing.
It’s always after they prop up my teeth;
Drill, fill, inspect them, then admire their bling,
So, when I smile at you, a rosy wreath
Surrounds these ancient pearls. You limp, we lunch,
Laughing about the people we have known,
Though neither of us cares to voice the hunch
We’re making up the tales of wild oats sown
When every hour blossomed, bright and fresh;
Where all we knew seemed vigorous, bright and strong—
In places where we reveled in our flesh,
Before the bones and guts and teeth went wrong.
This stage set of a long-abandoned play
Stands stark, its broken fences on display.
