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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

50th Reunion

Old comrades, soul mates,
barely discerned shadows,
fifty years in the coming, reunion,
the great tributaries converging
for a few hours.
We will try to see each other
in strange faces.
Women with supple forms
overturned like carts,
men, virile and running,
holding onto arms,
as if to escort and being escorted.

Myself, unable to bear the news
of old conquests.
Life released from glasses, stories, laughter,
enough people for a small party,
a few tables.
Forgive me if I don’t remember names,
the calls were few,
the notes fill a box,
we flew away like a flock of birds
to strange, bewildering countries.

Always, here and there,
when I saw a boat,
viewed a war,
lost myself on a walk,
you came back like flashes of light,
and I vowed to write, call,
visit a few old precincts where you gathered,
but never did.
You remained for the fiftieth,
a closet full of mementos
and missed words.
Oh, let’s drink comrades,
compare our stories,
and ignore the emptiness in the room,
the absence of lost friends.

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