That much-too-pregnant neighbor is being
pulled down Cresheim by her Lab,
being dog-walked, and I hear only
your saying over mussels and clams,
You know, I may never come east again.
Nothing’s here.
Long pause. How’s the family?
Again, the dog-walked staggers past.
Your mother is dead, sister “settled,”
and you are single again. Somewhere too close
another neighbor wades into flying
sycamore trash with a blower,
rips into it and through the words
never come again. The leaves fly up,
past your beautiful face, over a split of wine.

A Message from the Editors

Since 1982, The New Criterion has nurtured and safeguarded our delicate cultural inheritance. Join our family of supporters and secure the future of civilization.

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 36 Number 2, on page 33
Copyright © 2022 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com
https://newcriterion.com/issues/2017/10/old-friend