Sons and Lovers
I do not think that our fathers ever met
But we know from their stories
That their camaraderie was strong.
They slapped backs,
Twisted wrists, shot rabbits,
Fondled rumbleseat girls
Thickened their livers with whiskey
And their hands with work
All before they were twenty-five.
We would not have been their comrades
Had we known them then.
What would they have thought
Of spending the whole morning
Watching the eyelids of a sleeping girl
Or leaving half a beer
To go outside and make angels
In the new snow?