294. WELL A WEEK

WELL A WEEK
It's been well a week since I saw you;
that letter in the mailbox, the postcard on
the mantle, the small photo, pressed between
leaves of a book. Nothing helped and nothing
mattered. It was like dining for two when only
one showed, or looking with both eyes as
only one worked. A boxer would know
better, fighting a shadow in the ring, the
ring to which the 'other' had never shown up.
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One and one, it seems, can sometimes equal nothing.
Other times, one and one can add up absolutely to
whatever you'd like it to be. Remember the old
days, all those immigrants in the darkened movie
theaters, staring up at screens with newsreels endless,
repeated over and over, trying to learn the language
of the land? Impossible sometimes to achieve.
When you leave the Old Country as an idiot,
you're pretty much still that when you arrive here.
Some things never change; the spider with his
web, the beetle caught within.