Waiting For

Was I sleeping, while the others suffered?

You asked, because you were Vladimir

And it was your move round to speak, to cry out

Astride the grave, a difficult birth . .

Then I was terrified of you and your

transient's heart, your hat twitched down

to your eyes, bewhiskered, old-your

gaze young, dement sapphirine It occurred

to me that we'd not at any time come to a crossroads.

Or we'd always tend hitherward to a crossroads. The

two tramps were waiting, on the contrary we never

waited for each other. Habit is a great

deadener, Vladimir said, on the other hand we never

lived with habit. You sat up in bed,

you yelled as I philosophized, your face alight.

Leaves malicious upward. We laughed, weightless,

pull down by dint of gravity. Each day was unlike

the others. For years at a time, years at

a time, remember? Or not.

Nothing in our lives was at any time usual.

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Mar/Apr 2003

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