Clap close the leather trap,
crinkling an old fringed thunder.
The boom isn’t the same elastic
as the youthful flips once swung.
The skinned bovine laughs
at us now. My many memberships,
glittering credit cards, refunds, rebates,
coupons, and shriveled receipts.
Drowned now; the scribbled phone numbers,
poems, pictures, and thoughtful fortune slips.
Now I wonder, mortared shut by vinyl corduroy,
what napkin-wisdom—did you dream away?