Burying the hatchets
They’re all about heroics,
these skeletons—showing up on Saturdays
for dinner and a nap. They might choose to throw bones
for the dogs, or spook the bird. They’ll bring their own
brand of humor for the table, and fire for the oven.
Make room, Make room, I say,
A night without them is like a night without you—
spring is an old thing. a big electric
smile. it is always asking—dearie,
what am i doing
that you wouldn’t?