by Neil Donnelly
Our school was playing in a town near
Blackstairs. I got on the bus, then went
straight to your house where years
before you turned off the light, and
from a small movie camera, you shone
comic films on the wall and beams
danced on your forehead. But now
you are someplace else. Your mother
pours more tea. I’m sure she ponders
why I’m still here and not at the game,
and why I wait on, long after your
proposed return time has expired.
*
When we were four, and until then,
living in adjoining flats overlooking
the town square, you came with your
mother on a first visit to our new house,
and while our parents chatted in the kitchen,
you took me outside to sit on the porch step
and began to show me how to play cards.
Even then, you already knew more than me.
Mama, it’s raining! We have to go home!
A single drop had landed on the back of
your hand. You hurried your mother out
the gate.
*
I watched from the window as you
passed beyond the front wall. In
seconds, you were gone.
*
Those seconds never fade….
