the yearbook

cleaning out the attic
you find
a yearbook from
your senior year
in highschool.
it's been decades
since you opened
it and perused it's
black and white
photos, the scribbled
musings of good
luck, best wishes,
stay cool and have
fun. remember home
room says another.
don't ever change,
and you wonder if
you have. you see
the faces of those now
gone, the teachers,
old then and surely
not around anymore.
it's painful in a way.
to be that young,
unwrinkled, before
work and love,
before everything.
how large the world
seemed then,
how small it
has become.