help line

Help Line.

My friend rang he sounded old and tired,
He was undergoing treatment for an illness
And could no longer reproduce, didn’t quite
Understand, when I did, thought his worry
Strange, he is seventy and his wife’s sixty,
I made kind noises and avoided flippancy.
For an hour he spoke of our schooldays,
And of episodes in our adolescence, things
I had forgotten; and there were confessions,
Yes, he had stolen my tennis ball; and now,
Childless, feared he would be forgotten.
I wondered if any life is worth remembering,
it is mostly banal and only of fascination to
ourselves and a few friends.