Three score three years ago, a thousand miles

north of this strand, a bundle of innards

and outward signifiers was conjured from

the reluctant loins of a Pennsylvania lass

with literary aspirations. It took

forceps to get me out, but once out, I

resolved to have what fun there was—candy,

the comic strips, the opposite sex, and golf.

Now here among retired CEOs

deposited in walled communities

whose seven-figure pastel domiciles

bespeak funereal discipline—a wealth

of wasps preserved in money’s sparkling amber.

the forceps tug me one notch further out.