Cement colored headdresses abound along this row
Of people who, like me, wish they were anywhere else
But who seem resigned to the fact that anywhere else
Might be a box where light and life would never reach

And thus faced with a conundrum without an exit
We rest against large white pillows and wonder
Who among us in the worst shape. Most of us
Are the age and color of dust and so pity, when
It is extended, is only gifted to the very young

God may be evident in this room. It is light and
Airy enough to believe in a deity of love and hope
And even that He may extend to us some peppering
Of Grace to keep us on a track that will keep us breathing

I am not yet at the point where I fiddle with beads
Or fate. I am remarked on for having that same wit
And appetite I maintained when I rode a creaky
Elevator to this vault and rented this particular chair.

Not with money I wanted to spend, mind you, and not
With any intention of signing a long-term lease. I know
The language of my contract well; if I did not the blood
Drawn from my elbow joints would remind me of what I owe.

The woman to whom I owe so much sits next to me, not stoic
At all, but not speaking anymore than she has to. What we said
And what we say has long been decided in other venues. Our conversations
Are as gentle as a soft rain, and contain more thoughts than words

And yet, even among the silences, we say so much and are both
Amazed. The wrongs I did, for which I can’t apologize, have
Been forgiven to a point. And if disaster can bring about a rough
Rapprochement it goes to show that life has its own balance sheet

But I do ask her if she needs anything and I make sure she is
Comfortable when it is me she is worried about; she sits by
And plays Candy Crush on her iPad while I dawdle
Over a book. Sighing, I rest, while the ghosts around me whisper.

And in answer to a question I cannot form on my lips, she says
“We want to keep you around, that’s why,” and I close my eyes.

10/14/2013

Posted on 10/14/2013
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch