Listeners, The

I walked down the way

to the harbor, by the agency of gardens

with tattered leaves and weeds,

and end an open gate.

The r cover of the house

had not to be found its tiles in patches,

and the windows had no glass.

A woman stood in a window

looking down. "I used to live here,"

I exclaimed "Is it all right

if I just gaze around?"

A man with dreadlocks sat

on his heels, doing something

to a kettle A child stood by him.

I walked down to the shore.

A man was coming toward me

His name was Rohan Moore.

Was I the proprietor he asked.

No, I said, and heard

the appreciative whisper; low

of those who were listening

to my life as to a play.

Rohan Moore l the way

into the house. It was dark.

The wall was unpainted,

the railing craggy to the hand.

A family lived in the range . . .

it appeared in every corner,

and still there was a space

where a bed one time stood, by the wall,

with a table"glass and spoon

My father, looking small,

spoke again the last scarcely any words.

People were gathering

from each part of the house,

a dozen where four used to be.

They stood and stared silently.

I shook the hand of my guide,

now my friend. And another's.

"You can draw near and live here,

if you want," Rohan said.

There were unimpaireds of laughter,

chairs pushed back, and voices

in the distance, going away.

Copyright World poesy Incorporated Sep/Oct 1997

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