1017. MR. LENZ, HE WITHERS

MR. LENZ, HE WITHERS
The small box in the parlor made me think
of you. Dim lighting accentuated the depth
of the colors on the walls, bringing me
forth from the moment to something other.
I remembered how, in Madrid you said,
the water in the central plaza fountains
runs at only certain hours, in tune with
an old religious tradition. Nothing I could
recall exactly, but the memory stayed.
This tiny box, too, looked like that : it
could have held a saint's bones, or
some other such sacred item.
-
People have ways of marking time.
Those bundled masses I often see,
crimped and dark, walking over
the bridge - crossing water, high up,
silent, engrossed in their own place.
Some talk, yes, but it's only a feint.
-
Three boys, I remember watching, once
were throwing some coins down on cars.
I don't know what ever came of that.
I heard of no accidents, nor arrests,
but I said nothing and decided I'd
rather just let it be. I too walked on.
When I told you about it, you said
I was wrong, should have said
something, should have been
'strong'. Yes, that was
the word you used. A
word I never got over.
-
Am I weak, I wonder now, for letting
these simple things haunt me? I would
rather arise from a sleep in a dream-walk
than have to grapple with other folk. That
small, silent box in the parlor of Mr. Lenz,
it really does remind me of you. Yet,
every time I ask about it, he looks
distant, and fades away.