Sunday, May 15, 2011


Just kids, we knew or thought we knew our friend,
Solemn as a stag in the gazettes.
On Saturdays in summer we’d drop in.
He’s smile, place childish fingers on the frets.

The hint of age, a shuffle as he’d rise
to cross his room, when the Victrola’s sound
Seemed suddenly to intrude. Our surprise
was new each time he shut the volume down,

Then lift the needle and bang down the lid.
He’d turn. Get out! He’d curtly us command.
The inner voices not so quickly rid
Unloved companions of our aged friend.  

Before crimson effusions were released
Requiring the prompt presence of police.

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