It is not like riding a bicycle,
one can forget how to dance.

At the twenty-five mile marker
we pass a cross with plastic flowers.
Travelling east on I 70
things aren’t like they used to be.
So much has died
since we actually saw the stars.
Every five years a reunion,
        the attendance dwindles.
Old friends and lovers are strangers.
We muse that they have aged badly
then glance at each other discretely -
avowed travelling companions
        quiet in the eye of the storm.

Reunions can do that sometime,
for a minute you forget that you’ve graduated.