I slept nine hours last night, she says,
I dreamed of you.
I asked if that was why she slept so long.
Only joking.
She laughs and say for sure it was.
Warm weather here.
Cold there.
Spring, how lovely.
Flowers and butterflies.
Yes.
I smile.
She always thinks of something pretty.
The taxi driver had a Brooklyn accent.
Like all the films, I think,
and remember Sophie’s Choice
Timbered houses, gables.
Tragic story.
Quick slices of happiness.
Madness.
Thinking of that I miss her next two sentences.
I come back to her.
Heavy luggage.
Last night was full of sirens and voices.
The Broadway shows cost a lot.
Traffic.
We’re leaving here soon, she says,
and I can’t wait to see you.
Everything is going to be so good.
Every word she says, is interspersed,
with saying how she loves me
and how she’s longing to be near me.
taxi
Moving Wheels
the taxi drivers leaned lazily on their cars
where they waited by the rank across the road
suppressed by summer heat
in the avenue of trees, full of cackling rooks
who spoke in secret code
i was working near a window
in the heart of town, looking down
on passing cars and buses
slow moving wheels,
in the bustling, heat baked, town
i was dreaming i suppose, after lunch,
when i saw them, slowly crossing, arm in arm
an old couple, threatened by the cars
it made me tense to watch
in case they came to harm
they looked like tired lovers
grey haired and bent with time
it was a sudden shock to me
to see them from this distance
knowing they were mine
no longer young, now fragile,
clinging fast together,
on quiet cautious feet,
my fathers so protective arm
made their tenderness complete
when did this happen?
when did they become so old?
it was only yesterday,
rashly dodging traffic,
impetuous and bold,
my father was always
rushing on ahead
with a sudden jolt i realised
as tears welled in my eyes
it wont be long now
before they both are dead
The Dreaming Path 