Aboard the train, the usual thing:
a conversation overheard,
then eavesdropped on: two friends
discussing an absent third,
their heads ashake with sympathy,
in shared concern their voices hushed;
so that I caught, for all my strain,
no more than snatches as we rushed
downtown. At first one word, “ … divorce …
,”
its steely second syllable
landing like a guillotine,
alone cut through the shrill
disharmony of track and wheel;
but then during a smoother stretch
whole phrases reached my ear:
it seems he’d chanced upon—poor wretch!—
“ … his wife in bed with someone else … ”
and that “ … his daughter has
Tourette’s… . ”
And there I was, attending to
the woes of a man I’d never met,
whose very name I failed to learn;
yet all the while half-thinking of
my eight-months-pregnant wife, and how
the vulnerabilities of love
would soon, for me, be doubled;
and wondering whether I,
when sorrows come (as Claudius says)
no longer single spies
but in ruinous battalions,
can possibly withstand their force;
and whether anyone, in fact,
dare doubt that in due course
they’ll be the sad case talked about,
their life careering off the rails:
the one regarding whom such friends
as these, in view of his travails,
will some day ask quite hopelessly
—this last bit gleaned before we all
stand up, get off, disperse—
“ … Who can catch him if he falls? … .”