Poems For Yale Classmates by Tom Greening

SATURDAY NIGHTS They had the money and time to indulge in booze and the arrogance to think they could handle it. Doug led the pack and I stood on the sidelines watching them charge and stumble by. I worked in the dining hall and remember Saturday nights coming back to the empty dorm too sober for my own good, but sane enough to develop a taste for classic jazz by listening to Doug’s records he acquired from the Commodore Record Store on his jaunts to New York. That was over fifty years ago. Doug never graduated and died young. Recently at a garage sale I bought a 78 RPM record of “Relaxin’ at the Touro” by Muggsy Spanier and felt an unexpected gratitude to Doug, and even nostalgia for those lonely Saturday nights. SUNDAY DRIVE I'm driving along the Malibu coast in my BMW convertible with a pretty blonde at my side listening to an old but good CD by her ex-lover, long dead from an overdose. She still looks cool, but we don't talk much because her mind is fading from too many drugs and she is depressed about being stuck, except for these rare outings, in the board and care home. So "the glory days" are definitely over, and soon this ride will be over and I'll drop her at the home. She says, "I really appreciate your visits," and, as the sun falters in coastal fog, I wonder if I'll make another one. Postscript: She is still young — I hardly can abide the thought that this might be our final ride. I tell myself that somehow I am sure before too long they'll find a magic cure. CHORTLING Forgive me if I am so bold as to insist I am not old. In fact, I'm really glad to say I'm growing younger every day. While others age and get decrepit I soldier on and am intrepid. The years slide by and comrades pass; too bad for them, alack, alas. Is it unseemly that I chortle about the fact that I'm immortal? (The poem "Chortling" above was written after an email "conversation" with classmate Steve Stulman in which he reassuringly noted that "none of us is really as old as we are." The second poem, "The Future" was written shortly after.) THE FUTURE While futurists and psychics all warn of gloomy trends, of catastrophic forces, of evil means and ends, reality is shifting and few can chart its course, so make your choices wisely or you will feel remorse. Sheer chaos spirals wildly, the center will not hold— you cannot steer by compass as in the days of old. You need clichés to guide you: the future lies ahead! In spite of our shrewd planning, some day we'll all be dead. My own guru has foresight and he has counseled me to put my trust in madness, not immortality.

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