On visiting your native town, we walk
The streets you used to walk before we met.
We talk about the sights. But as you talk,
And as you smile, I can’t help see regret.
Some memory transfixes every spot:
Old dreams, perhaps, of what would gladden you
In years to come. The years have come: I’m not
The future you were looking forward to.
How brave you are—to walk with me, yet bear
Such disappointment, such surprising grief
That, just this once, you can’t humanely share
With me, the one who usually brings relief.
My fault: I thought that you’d enjoy the week.
You take my hand and press it to your cheek.
|Copyright © 2023 by Eric Meub|
Eric Meub is a California poet & architect.