He spoke to me, recounting events
humorous and terrifying
and mundane, spinning his stories
out into the air.
And he began to look concerned –
Are you all right? Asking but never
accepting the simple truth
that it was not me on the bench
sitting beside him.
I was walking and watching
from a discreet distance, well out
of the range of his voice – that
penetrating, droning voice,
on and on and on – facts, opinions,
disjointed bits of trivial local history.
Let me just tell you, he’d intone
always with the same hard look
straight into your eyes
but never a glance around at the
dead frozen forms all laid out
around this little forum, never a serious
question, no comments required
from the me that was not even there,
that was far away and floating out
with the early morning tide.
(Originally appeared
in Slit Your Wrists eZine)
