The poet has taken to the north platform to watch
the trains pass until death. His back curled
in a plaintive slouch the tips of his fingers
clutch the faded rucksack resting between his feet.
A lonely fluorescent the color of dust smears
face paint shadows across a countenance
of waning expectation, a guise of patient resignation.
It can't be much longer now, his eyes seem to plead.
The poet has recovered time and again
from a series of small strokes only
to say that each recovery leaves him
nervous with anticipation for another, quietly
hoping that the next will leave him frozen,
leave him unconscious and infinitely unaware
of his surroundings. And only today, today,
after weeks of watching, did I finally speak.
May I take your photograph, I ask, lashing
out at inward reticence. I see clouds invade
his eyes and hear words cleave the space between
us--That is something I've never been asked, he says,
Please, son, please. Ask me again for yesterday.
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