REUNION

We used to be friends.

We met again yesterday.
Yes, the years had taken toll
in shifting shape, paler pallor,
gray gradation. No surprise.
What disappointed was what
was gone -- the banter,
the happy insults, the old
ease in each other's company.

We reminisced, of course.
It was expected.

We summarized our decades:
wives, children, jobs.
We stumbled into silence.
One of us saved us
 -- was it him or me? --
by saying we had to be going, had
to catch the plane or something,
sure was great we could get together,
got to do this again, hey, take it easy.
He -- or I -- said, as we used to,
that we would take it anyway
we could get it. We shook hands.

I wanted to weep.
We used to be friends.