I will pull the empty boat in.
The one that drifted on the river.
That had no place to go
and no occupant.
A shoe without a foot,
and I’d pull it in,
and if there were no clothes in it,
no words,
no luggage or string to bind things with,
that would be that.
Like sunlight dissolving in the night,
like the lace of a snowflake
falling into the earth.
Forever forgotten because
there are so many.
So many endless voices, prayers, occasions,
except, with an ounce of imagination,
a whiff of pity,
the empathy of a shared vision.
I’d look into the boat
and touch the seat with my fingers.
I’d wipe the tears from my eyes
and uncover the dust.
I’d look for the scratch made by a knife,
a pen,
and try to find a name,
and you know what I’d find.
It’s what you would find,
and the hundred strangers
you passed today and enquired,
who are you,
passing in their boats.
Why do we hide from them?
Why do I let them pass
and pull in an empty one to me,
and cry over a shadow,
the regret of a drowning, a death?
Because there are so many
and I can only deal with one.
Can watch in the night
for the one who died,
who comes back
to see the man who cared.