My friend spoke of his life
\nin the most ordinary terms.
\nHis wife is dying.
\nHer presence is an empty chair.
\nHe talks of relatives and politics.
\nThe edge of his heart is cool.
\nHis hands grope with his tea.
\nThe comaraderie of a restaurant,
\nmeaningless pictures on the wall,
\nlarge windows that let me see faces passing.<\/p>\n
A beautiful blond woman goes by,
\nsomewhere between youth and age,
\npassing through the air of early autumn.
\nClear air,
\npure air,
\nthe dust of summer gone.
\nCool air,
\nlike her face full of transparency,
\na complexion of pink and gold.<\/p>\n
My friend looks into the room.
\nWe share only partial things.
\nI am waiting, he says,
\nand I glance at the enclosure
\nof red rug and brown tables,
\nto conversation by the wall.
\nHe speaks with the plainness of a barren hill.
\nWhere are the flowers?
\nWhere are the moments of spring?
\nHe has no place to go.
\nHe is waiting,
\nnot for a bus, a plane, a boat.<\/p>\n
He harbors a life breaking,
\ngoing off out of control.
\nI tell him, lets meet more often
\nand he nods.
\nLets talk of relatives and politics,
\nfootball.
\nLets look out the window at rain and snow.
\nI\u2019ll watch the people passing
\nand there\u2019ll be no more waiting,
\njust conversation and an empty chair.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
My friend spoke of his life in the most ordinary terms. His wife is dying. Her presence is an empty chair. He talks of relatives…<\/p>\n