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by Tom Greening



Here for our 60th Yale reunion
I and my classmates
are about 80 years old
and facing time's firing squad.
I thought we might escape,
but our plans are being thwarted
and, virtuous and deserving though we may be,
our days are numbered.
Shall we celebrate or mourn,
and how shall we spend our dwindling days?
One friend arrives in a wheelchair
and we reminisce
about a prank he pulled on me
(too ridiculous to recount).
No pranks can now ease
the weight of our awareness
that our next reunion
may not be on this sunlit storied campus
or in this lifetime.


When I was young I felt by life bedazzled,
but now, alas, it seems I'm mostly frazzled.
The hours in each day are far too few
and I lose track of what I planned to do.
I strive and flail, but find to my dismay
my list of chores keeps growing day by day.
I fear the world is going to pass me by
and won’t concede that I must simplify.
Oh how I wish I could be young again
(as if I was more organized back then).

More of Tom Greening's Poems

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