The bridge over waning years is creased with toil
where poise and bravado spill over in laughter.
Wheelchair traffic animates carpeted lanes
like bumper cars, all signals on go. Standards for
diner p’s and q’s were set in eras past, and the
genesis of conversation billows with filial pride:
My daughter is coming tomorrow.
My son, the director, is shooting in Spain.
Warble of birthday songs precedes an autumnal probe:
Tell me, courtly John, and tell me
Miss Mary of untamed opinions:
How often do you think of death?
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