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Poem

It is the hovering  time,
moments made to bear defining.
Someone should declare when it is night;
the dear white ghosts slip down the corridors,
wordless, in and out of rooms
as if the walls did not exist— and commerce
is a strange and other-world imagining
fading quite away, just after eight o'clock.

Sound is sacrilege, gesture  frames the hour.
And from the morgue below, the cart is bound
for 722; there is no one to weep.

There was a prayer a little while ago:
"You know, of course, dear lord,
I have the promise of my son...
that he won't let me die alone up here...
and in the dark."
                   ~

Note:  A few months before my father died, he expressed the fear
that he would "die alone, and in the dark."  And it has always
haunted me that he did, indeed, have to do that.  We, his children
were not there.

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