Reading at Morningside

All except three are brought in
on wheelchairs. Two have hands

that flutter like leashed doves:
trying to take off, but not

succeeding. One has a worry
doll of some sort on his lap.

Two slump slightly forward
and appear to fall asleep

for a few minutes at a time.
One asks where I am from

when I go to shake her hand
in greeting; then she tells me

I am from England— England.
One, when speaking, slurs

some of the ends of her lines.
A nurse or orderly sits discreetly

at the back of the room. All
are dressed comfortably,

as if they were about to go
play cards or sit in the garden

while having a cup of tea. I know
one of them, and that she at least

has family nearby; in her one-
bedroom flat, she is surrounded

by books and her favorite art.
Among them, on a Friday morning

in a room where a vase of white
flowers gleams on the grand piano

and leatherbound copies of National
Geographic line the shelves, I read

poems: on daughters, mothers, partners;
on phone calls from annoying insurance

agents; about the uncertain cargo
we push in front of us as we go,

telling ourselves there’s a bit of a ways
more, but how much more, we don’t know.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Old, blue.