At the window

A Buddha moon bellies upon the clouds

And with the staccato echo of heels on concrete

I hurry to my window, for it was the sound

of when once you came home

In that time when I knew love by your name.

The street below, patterned in the circles of street lamps

With glistening puddles from the afternoon rain

Speaks of emptiness except for one figure

Walking slowly, face down, hands shoved into raincoat pockets

Frantically I lift the stubborn window and call, “Annette!”

 

She pauses, marvelously captured in light and shadow

And lifts her eyes to my face and smiles

It is not you. It never is. But she smiles as if knowing

My thoughts and torments. She smiles and shrugs

And walks on but with paces telling that she is like me

And has nowhere to go except into yesterdays

When all the wonders were born that now

Slowly die within us, for nothing is as cold as sorrow.

And I retreat into myself and pen the false idols of words

As if syllables were serums and hyphens were hope

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Ed Fagan]

Oh, this one stings. Throught the excitement of recognition to the dejection of fasle hope it wreaks of a hollowed type of sadness one can only know from living it. Well exspessed Doc.

[DrD]

Thank you, Ed. True event but many years ago . . . .