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Description
In the last airport corridor
I ride the golf cart, squinting.
Your finally electric-white
curls glance a little off
the fluorescent lights.
You push a walker, step,
push, step, until we meet
somewhere near the middle.
When I falter, your steadier
limbs hold me plumb.
We drink tea together and are
quiet, thinking of the time
before this future. We've had
such endings before, quick
connections for hello and goodbye
between home and far, the Limbo
of travelers and long-distance friends.
There isn't much to say
now, and the silent years
find long faults in the conversation.
It is slipping away. You are thinner
than I would like, and my arms
come around you for a while.