Some come when you call: I need you to come, you say, and there they are. So glad you’re here.
Some just show up at your door: you look at them. Won’t you come in? You seem to be there, but no part of you is there.
Some show up at your door—no call, came far—burst of joy!
Some are long gone but somehow seem still here, and though with some that feels right, with some it’s wrong, all wrong.
Some long gone, no part of them here—they sucked a last breath, and out they blew. (Good-bye, friend. You loved me, I loved you.)
Some still here, and near, and (if you were young) you’d love to do soft things to: she in the off-white blouse at the art store, who leans to lift that brick of clay. But you’re not young, are you: she looks at you, casts down her glance as if in shame—your shame—and when you walk out the door you pass a sketch in store-glass, see your own face there—some man who once made art and now just stands at that glass and laughs, and you hear the laugh, and it’s a fine laugh, his voice from the stars, some of whose light comes your way.
Gerald Fleming | Train Man Contents | Mudlark No. 56 (2015)