The clichés rained
when I was young
like hollow outlines
I was destined to fill
with real details—
sayings tested with
practice dodging
bullets with agility
and dumb luck
to get old enough
to speak at funerals
of a few good friends
who rode with me,
or saw it all
from a distance:
no straight track
ricocheting minefields
heavily invested
in the senses. But
no longer hackneyed
hints for youth,
they become fresh,
reborn with answers
at our fingertips.
The only school for eulogists is relationships . . .
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I’ll buy that, wholeheartedly.
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A wonderful poem, thanks.
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You’re welcome, Bruce, glad you liked it.
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