“SEEING YOU AGAIN”, “NEXT STOP”, “RIDING” and “TY NEWYDD”
By Louis Faber
SEEING YOU AGAIN
I saw you again yesterday, as I have
so often recently and once again thought
of approaching you for there is much
I would like to know about you and how
we ended up in the same place.
But once again I sensed that you
wanted solitude, wanted not
to be disturbed, not to be questioned.
You did smile briefly, a momentary
softening of you face, but that
moment passed all too quickly.
You were again dressed with
a certain dated elegance as if
to say this was not your time
and never would be, shoes that
once would have been called sensible,
a handbag not a purse, sitting still
nursing your coffee, legs crossed
only and the ankle as they did
in all the post-World War photos.
I wanted to speak to you, but all
I could do was smile, tip my head
in your direction and hope, deeply
hope that one day you might
approach me and ask me just how
I ended up in this place, for that
is what I imagine a mother would
ask of a child she placed for adoption.
NEXT STOP
It is small, dark and desolate,
tucked away in a corner
that no one wants to visit.
They all stop there, as required,
but only rarely does anyone
get off and it always seems
a sudden, reluctant decision.
Most don’t even peer out the windows
when it stops there, they avert
their gaze wondering if anyone
will rise to leave, not wanting
to be seen looking, a transfixion.
It is a station from which
you step off only once
and, no matter how many other
stations you visit, embarking
and disembarking, it is here
everyone knows you leave only once.
Everyone imagines they have seen
the station agent waiting patiently
at the end of the platform along the river
but in truth, he has never been seen
for you meet him but once
and there can be no speaking of it later.
Riding
A bicycle
red Schwinn
rust encircling
stem and
headset.
Baseball cards
clipped
to frame
engaging
turning spokes
imagined motor
speeding down
buckling sidewalk.
Skinned knees
bloody,
wheel rim
slightly bent,
wishing suddenly
for winter.
TY NEWYDD
In the gently aging house,
replete with writers
there are endless rooms
in which the muse darts
dispensing her soul.
I prefer to sit with the cat
curled in an overstuffed chair
her head rising
and falling imperceptibly
our breaths harmonic.
We commune in unspoken dialog
a language of silence
bespeaking volumes
of our shared existence.
Louis Faber’s work has previously appeared in Arena Magazine (Australia), Atlanta Review, Flora Fiction, Alchemy Spoon (U.K.), Driech (Scotland), Exquisite Corpse, Rattle, Eureka Literary Magazine, Midnight Mind, Pearl, Midstream, European Judaism, The South Carolina Review and Worcester Review, among many others, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
