3284. WARFARE, PESTILENCE, AND GREETINGS

WARFARE, PESTILENCE,
AND GREETINGS

Standing towards the end of my life I'd swear to
see you - dunking lightbulbs, or swishing girders gladly
in the old and open Delaware Canal. Where we may have
passed as strangers, where we may have lived together.
I don't know. My dirigible sensations are gone, these
tired fingers rankle now with only dead pages, and -
all else together - I too await the ferryman to take me.
'You were born to live, my boy, as much as you were
born to die. Fear not the ferryman, he will always come by.
It's just a matter of time : warfare, pestilence, and greetings.'
-
I held you close, once, as a little girl. We shared time together.
Then, older and later, we moved along the same towpath,
it seemed, until even the donkeys and mules collapsed.
If they could talk, I knew they would have said 'this
pulling barges is just no fun.' But I was in another
world, and lived between the times. The meadows,
being once meadows, always fit me fine. Now, it
seems they're paved with discontent. Yours is
yours, and mine is mine. It's all just a matter
of time : warfare, pestilence, and greetings.