I pulled the papers out a year ago –
three stacks of correspondence from old friends,
I stored for half a century or so
within the trunk my father made, that tends
old paperwork and serves in table’s stead.
I sent one batch, acknowledged soon with “yes!”
Another went, as yet I think unread.
The third I held uncertain of address.
A month ago I made a flimsy try
to find that erstwhile pal, although the more
I thought of him, the less I sought reply.
At last I shook my head, and chose “ignore.”
His letters met the blue recycle can.
I’d rather recollect than see the man.
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