Mary fell off in Paris long ago,
emailed to say don’t write her anymore.
Perry disappeared down in the Congo,
conflicted by Rwanda’s civil war.
Helen’s suffocating in white powder
somewhere in Brooklyn, lost her on the phone
back in June. Somehow a higher power
might save her, so Eddie says. I’m alone
tonight with all these old voices sweeping
through my room, their faded phrases swelling
louder through the dark. Not one for weeping,
I tie the sheet in a knot, start telling
the walls’ deep shadows I’d hold them, each one.
Flick my Walkman: Havens’ Here
Comes the Sun.
Roger Armbrust
June 21, 2013
