Days of 1948

Friends of the deceased pole-vault toward us.
That's creepy. Not to be infiltrated, his pastures
stretch to the moon, the old place. Besides which
he kept telling us how nice we were, and that
was something. Was it in the old house
on the wires? Thanksgiving earlier,
with all the folks you’ve loved for years,
vagabond days, nights of mystery?
Yes boys, that’s where my money goes.

Do you solemnly participate now,
where the tide is? Boink I love you.
Is that what you heard about him
that lets you distinguish between us
in the old opera house,
and you wake up screaming “Arriba!”