the dwindling class of 73

Becky

emails me about the upcoming

high school

reunion. then follows up the unanswered

email with a phone call.

she's been doing

this every five years, bugging

the hell out of former

students to attend

another reunion.

fifty years ago we all

graduated

from that stupid school.

she asks me if i know

where

Marvin Marowitz might be.

i say, who's that?

she says, well, he was

our class president and most

likely to succeed.

check Sing Sing, i tell her.

you're still so sarcastic

she says,

you haven't changed since

i sat next to you in Mrs. Moaks,

French three class.

oui, i say.

so, she says.

are you coming or not?

it's a day picnic, bring your

pickle ball paddle.

so far we have

four commitments and

ninety-seven no

responses.

we were going to invite

some of our

old faculty, but they're all

dead now.

do you mind bringing the hot

dogs and buns, kosher only,

and the mustard.

one pack should be

enough.

i'm bringing the deviled eggs,

and by the way, there's

handicap parking

and ramp access 

to the park grounds.

what about Holly 
Portobello?  do you know

where she is.

as a matter of fact i do.

yeah, i saw her online

the other day.

she was doing a class on face

yoga,

and selling wrinkle creams.

she has a web site,

so look her up.

i have to go now, my socks

need ironing.