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Walter Bargen.jpg (1697 bytes)

 

In a These Times

 

It was not your intention,
sitting quietly, hands together in your lap,
holding themselves in order to comfort yourself,
to convince you of the wholeness
of your sitting. Eyes closed wanting
only to be a listener, reduced to pure
vibration, a quivering inner ear,
recalling that first hint of breeze after days
of unapologetic heat, that moment the lilac leaves
imperceptibly shivered as honey suckle
began to drift across the porch,
and you at the edge of a fragrant listening.
Eyes open to confirm that you’ve not fallen,
but are caught there at a loss for giving
any kind of directions on how to find you,
hostage to this revelry,
still sitting next to a young woman
who believes that you are sitting there,
even as your face begins to disappear.
Your coat draped over the chair
like a wounded soldier.
Folded into grief, your coat a soul
waiting to be rescued, waiting
for one arm, then the other
to be slipped into a sleeve,
then to button the body closed.

 

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