(John, this was scratched on hard ground with a fingernail
I see you.
From the corner of my eye
I see you cross the room
and again I am momentarily bemused
that you do not stop
until you find your usual place.
You sit composed, like a friend,
a friend coming for coffee and a chat.
Your visits have become a ritual
I can predict;
you come when I need
someone to listen to my whimpers
against the loneliness
of rain in October,
when the liquid pain of despair
makes everything an agony,
— to be awake is misery.Â
Can you hear me,
you shadowy ghost
sitting across the room,
slowly fading, like my dreams.