Untitled

The wires have been hot
With news of deaths these days.
My class has reached the age
When youthful optimism
Has dribbled away, and belief in longevity
Is ever more severely strained.
I barely knew them in their prime,
And since then they have gone their way,
I mine,
Most onto high roads predetermined
By their parents' prominence
And bank accounts;
But I, a Sunday's child
With Thursday-Saturday tendencies,
While not a pauper, never disported
With the elite. I stayed grounded
As they swept through opulent Peter Max skies
Replete with rainbows,
Raptures reported by our school,
Or via bursts of breathless email,
Succulent envoy notices
Of marriages, births, and sundry sightings
At balls, horse races, and country clubs.
None of that for me, and I'm glad
That they've had "meaningful" lives
On their terms,
For over here--to the side, off the fairway,
In the rough with the weeds where I grub along--
My life has been a sweet imperfection
In its own spasmodic, left-field fashion.