Friend

cement grows darker with time, 
weather, winter fears.
Workers talk of running low 
on bread and gravy. New York. 
Upstate. Still it's good 
to see you laughing. After all, 
the windows are bound to ice up bad.
The smug bus will come no matter what -
six days a week. Twice an hour 
till midnight.   

A man I know well
sweeps the Capitol walks and halls 
till nine. Monday through Saturday.
Each night 
he walks broken and smooth sidewalk, 
steps into the tin-aluminum bus, 
rides to Prospect Street, finds 
his wife, nodding and puffy 
on the couch. The cat,
gray-white, curled against her hip. 

He 
puts a knee into the sofa, easy, 
leans to kiss her - lights 
of her slow eyes lift. 
Face of pure dusk comes up 
to kiss his neck, chin, cheek.
‘There's about a cup of rice left 
in the pan . . . to heat if you . . . .’

It's good 
to see you laughing, friend. There will be time, 
the longer times before spring, for tears, groceries 
and a stumbling into a thin chair. 
Time enough to wonder about leaves 
that have scattered through lots across town - 
and about solid marble floors the man I told you about
has swept.

Good 
to see you laugh - 
and slide a little on the vinyl seat.    
Laughing seasons the soul,
though the late fall dusk we lurch and tip through
is not the perfect quiet we might dream.
Still it's good to see your face
squinting, upper body rocking back and forth. 
After all, 
the windows will be icing up,
the bus will pull in no matter what -
six days a week. 
Twice an hour till midnight.   

 

© Tim Bellows