Apologies to L. P. Hartley

The past is a private country club.
We knew someone who knew someone
and secured a family membership.
The dues are pretty stiff, but we can choose
with whom to fraternize: the exclusive
and privileged and/or better born.
Often, we’d rather hobnob there than here—
to sit out on the greenside patio
in the early evening summer light
and watch the last group’s approaching shots.
To toast our handicaps with hearty laughs 
and clink the glasses all around.
Wet-eyed Old Boys. Twinkle-eyed Chaps.