anyone's epigrams except my own.
The jukebox was too loud. So on the phone,
We ran through highlights later, but I fear
that I improved my lines and she did too.
Perhaps stole someone else's. People die
half of our table's gone – and we don't lie
so much as ornament scraps that are true.
We do not want them gone into the dark
those days of youth and brilliance. We rehearse
our memories or coax them like a nurse
back into ember life. And if a spark
could bring flame back, would I want to return
relive it all, the wit, the hurt, the burn?