There was something altogether wrong
about the way he fit inside the
crisp-white shirt; the tie.
And there was something in his eyes
that brought to mind the images of
dogs in doggie-sweaters, with
their shamefaced smiles;
caught by the neck.
There was something like dismay
about the weight of the desk, the stacks
of papers to be calculated
(as if it mattered)
by this man who used to sail
away to sea; who used to write
the kind of poetry that moves
me, like the wind moves water.
And as he talked, I noticed
that he sighed a lot, as if
he were suddenly old and
wearily resigned, as if
he had outlived his soul.
Although he told me he was
fine; "happy enough.".
I didn't believe him; didn't
believe in any of it, only this:
three times I saw him turn toward
the window with the port below,
the ship about to leave and go.
Three times he turned, as if he
had been briefly called away.
-- Deb Cooper