Reunion
I don't want to go to the reunion,
all gussied up in a rented tux, though
I wouldn't mind going to the French island
of the same name, sparkling off
the East African coast, where you can snorkel
in bliss with the opalescent bananafish.
I wonder if Mr. Gardner will be present?
He taught us life has no purpose, just function.
Purpose he screeched when Sheri said the purpose
of sex was to pass on our genes.
And what if he's not there, double helix,
crepe soles, and all? Funny, you figure
the women will age badly, men be buff,
curly-coiffed, Zeus in a ruby Miata, but
it's the reverse--there's Ada stepping to the curb,
stressing her tresses like at the last reunion.
And I still can't dance. No, for sure
I don't want to go, yet here I am: one dark loafer
over the threshold, the other.
Copyright © Roy Jacobstein All rights reserved
Arts & Letters, 2007
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