“Oh how wrong we were to think immortality meant never dying” Gerard Way
Parked near the Surgery (doctor’s office), fiddling with my phone, I notice a car arrive.
The poem takes up the story …
Circumspect they leave their car,
unsteady feet and sturdy supporter.
Heads close as milongueros.
Bright sun sprays kisses, never felt,
through a fog of shared concern.
A leaden tempo slows their dance.
She grips the rail, her elbow held.
Tense shoulders meet, balance and rebalance.
Sedate steps reach a fateful door.
I follow in the wake of pain
and sit nearby, aware, empathic.
No blether fills their waiting.
The doctor comes and calls a name.
She stands slow, when erect limps off,
her man’s strong help conniving, hidden.
I, alone, witness subtle bolstering.
Asked … a withered hand, hip-height, reaches back.
Given … a caressing low-five of support.
Years of love in a brushing,
Solitary, with his magazine,
lost eyes stare, unfocused,
reading not an inky word.
For just a mo’ our eyes connect.
Raw fear exposed, a glimmer just,
and withdrawn, fast as a pounding heart.
A brittle smile, a nod … alone,
a weary head drops blank-eyed,
and yearns her pale return.
How many years their love o’ercame
cruel slings and arrows, rocks and stones?
Now trapped in life’s departure lounge.
She’s back, a new appointment made.
Delicate paces move away, in hope
or resignation, I cannot say.
My name is called …
© Mac Logan