All last night I held conversations with you. You stubbed out
your cigar, striding barefoot into my dream and went on sparring
with me though your last month in the hospital was silent. How do I make
this a normal Sunday evening? Make a plate of spaghetti, walk
up the dirty road with the dog, rent a foreign film. Instead I down
Jameson neat by the woodstove. When the phone rings
in the kitchen, I forget that it can’t be you. Remember
Christmas Eve of ’68 when you drilled me to repeat
that new telephone number over and over
in the passenger seat, just in case I got lost
among the holiday crowds at Gimbel’s Department Store.
Asleep, I hear your voice young again, rallying
fast tennis balls at me across the hot clay court. The call
tonight is my sister letting me know that your tombstone
cannot be placed until the earth settles. Outside
geese over the house call in distress, the unbroken dark
pressing around me. It feels like snow, enough
to blanket your nameless grave. It has been almost 40 years.
639-3224.
About Anthony Botti
