'I thought new disappointments impossible'

said poor Henryman;

The whiskers flew well enough

but that bridge was a hundred foot

high

                                                             (Yes, yes, it came as a shock to all of

                                                             us)
Those five years burying Bradstreet

might have been better spent my friend –

you remember the boobs they

gave those prizes to when we were

kids

                                                             (My girl says good poems don't need

                                                             an explanation, John.  I wonder about

                                                             good poets)
Your father studied the problem

from all angles, and though

you trusted in a forty-year faith

                                                              (Blossoms            What?)

I have a hunch it was Mrs Smith

outside the bedroom with

the shotgun that drove you,

pal.  No dream, no

song.
-Old friends you say, Bones?

                                                             (Old acquaintances would be better)