Stripped of the one
Whose existence gave his life
Its energy, shape and motivation
There he sat with curtains drawn
The flickering screen his sole companion
Trying to blot out
The monotonous thrum of mourning
Murmuring in his mind
Painful and prolonged.
The pharmacy.
He had to go to the local pharmacy
Heaving himself heavily from his chair
And hauling on his white coat
Now seeming more like a spectral shroud
He took his stick before opening the door
When the sunlight struck his eyes.
Haltingly and woodenly walking
Knowing in his heart
That he was going through the motions
Like a well rehearsed but tired actor
Reciting his oft repeated lines
And obeying the stage directions
There in the pharmacy
To receive his medication
For his physical pain
With nothing for his inner emptiness
Of soul.
Back he hobbled home
Dreading the closing of his door.
Now easy prey for rapists and for thugs,
she walked along the streets . Like ribbons frayed,
they ran, pot-holed, where dealers pushed their drugs,
where hoods and vagrants played and drunks lay splayed
like garbage by the curbs. Decrepit stores
stood vacant - business ceased. No niceties
took place behind those buildings where the whores
bent woodenly (for cheap) down on their knees.
A rain began to fall. . . became intense.
It pounded her; knocked memories ajar.
Envisioning the pleasant residents
from days long gone, she bolted to her car.
And glancing back, she wished the downpour would
just swallow whole that "new" old neighborhood.
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