At our fiftieth college reunion,

we try to stuff each other

back in the box that once contained us.

But some that were beauty queens

Now look like Grandma Moses paintings.

Some who were dowdy now have style.

The box has many doors and windows.

On the stage of the vacant recital hall,

We five friends watch our ex-roommate’s fingers

Glide magically through Bach’s Goldberg Variations.

We hear no difference in her faultless fashioning

Of line and intonation.

All is well until it is my turn to sing.

I go to st...