Left Behind

There are moments of absolute peace when I forget where I was when I was in love with a man, not just any man. Usually in dreams there is no romance, but rather another inclination of purpose. I’m reading poetry that is not confessional, in the midst of writing my long confession. Robert Hayden has dropped into my lap, a book of his poems left behind in my house by some friend, some poet friend. She believed I could be a poet, too. Such friends are rare, and rarer the dream of life. Forgotten, but not gone, all those gone on, a shelf of poetry, books, her journals, odds and ends stored in plastic boxes, just in case. What if there was never such a one again, such a friend, such a time, such a hope? There isn’t any reason to believe any more that I am more than mortal dust, just enough to keep going to work another day, to read all the books of poetry a friend left behind when her health failed and she moved away. Where are you now my good friend? I reach for another book of the poetry left on my shelf.