Saw You,  I Know
 
A g e.   One of the things I hate
and love
about getting old  {never being,
mind} is the way every person reminds
you of another.  Someone you knew
in passing or someone you miss
worse than you would miss an arm.
Whose passing left a hole
in your heart that is a puzzle
to physicians.  You turn a corner
and there she stands, yakking
up a storm, as always.  Dissolve
to the next, and he is loping toward,
scraggly beard,  mixmaster hair,
and all.  Never really leave the good
part.  Never stay, the blow
that plows  into your gut and dries
your throat.   You are healthy
as the proverbial horse, doctors
say, shaking their heads.  Maybe
you should look into therapy.
Like therapy is going to bring back
her laugh.  Like laying it all
on some poor shrink is going to
put John's or Philip's wide or slim
hand in mine once more.  But at least,
at least,  I get to see different versions
of you.  Part in your silk hair reversed
or you've cleaned up your act,
finally tossed the hole–pocked tee
or went more than a little crazy
with a crimping iron and  Max Factor.
So many types of face shapes,
so many ways a jaw can slant,
so many, only not so many
as occur when the world is new
and you are just  beginning
to be a separate person with separate
likes and dislikes and friends
who are friends because they agree
and do not.  Close kin are nearly all
alive and you have rarely attended
the funeral of someone you  know.
No, knew.  Now you go to so many.
Grief  likes to stay fresh, you know?.
Let's not waste time.  Parade's passing.
Pretty good spot.   Stick with me.
What do you say?

(c) Phyllis Jean Green,  2006