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THE IMAGINED HUSBAND

April 7, 2018

An imagined husband,

A missed appointment,

No response to a message.

 

Fifty two A seventy five,

The code to a door, not my own,

The code to doctor’s door,

I go out only to see doctor,

I know not the code of my door.

 

A blinding depression, every morning,

Squeeze my eyes shut, it remains,

World growing smaller and smaller,

We can’t all say that we’re on Capitol Hill,

With husband, imagined.

 

All of your ventures out, alone,

I know, you’re right. I’m better then,

When I’ve activities to engage me,

Activities which are my death,

Nothing less. Now, others know my doctor,

He’s old. White haired. Bespectacled,

Although we wouldn’t say,

He turns his head when I pass him

On the street at around midnight.

 

I become more and more home bound,

Doctor doesn’t seem to care,

I’ll no longer see him when I’m stuck

At home. He’ll lose his faithful patron,

Patient. A hundred and fifty I give him,

Weekly, for little, some say.

 

Show me this husband then, dear,

I know it’s hard, when he’s non-existent,

Stuffed animals do not count here,

Stuffed animals with lives and personalities

Of their own. What a folie you live, dear.

 

Message, undesired. From another,

I no longer venture out. A message wasted,

Extend invitation, if you wish,

I’ll be absent, with no confirmation,

Confirmation affirmative or negative.

 

I can’t take this anymore,

The ‘routine’ …. abhorrent,

An aberration. A perversity of nature,

I’ll be like a love, whom I never loved.

 

You lied. I’ll go straight home,

They lied. It’s not possible,

A water sprays, wildly,

Military men approach, all sunned,

For it suns. The sun shines bright,

They’re searching, looking, for what?

They bring a sense of ease to tired souls.

 

Announce my arrival. Thank you,

He’ll keep me waiting: it’s customary,

The bells of buses ring out,

There’s no sound here

Except my breathing,

And, I am most alone.

 

Yes: we receive calls on Saturdays, Saturday mornings,

The day’s just bright enough to call,

We unwrap scarves,

We detest those who stand guard,

Stand guard over buildings, daily,

But, of course, they don’t dangle. Not as such,

They’re here. That’s their sole role,

They bring no peace, of mind or other.

 

I’m a soldier who parades in quiet settings,

I expect applause. I hear none,

In khaki; not that of civilians,

All is calm today; she remains silent,

There’s no one to break her silence.

 

I hear the lift. It descends and arises,

I step onto trains, and then I descend,

At my stop or another: little importance,

Follow the tracks, I make it home,

A small home, but a home nonetheless.

 

I’ll call. I know she’s not there,

She told me twice: I know she’s not there,

But I’ll call. I am most alone here,

Don’t ask. I made a point just now.

 

Sometimes it’s one light, sometimes another,

I am above the strange occurrences,

The world is strange, but real,

Underwater worlds are fanciful,

What makes one a success and another failed?

And what is success and conversely failure?

 

Take the stairs, take the lift:

It’s never clear, the response we make,

We fall over ourselves in stairwells,

Lifts are full to overflow.

 

Weekends they sleep late,

Not the postman …. seven days,

Doctor makes no conversation,

Not with receptionist nor with me,

With me, it’s obliged, but, he’s above me,

He knows this: it’s condescending,

But, I’m a poet,

He’s in awe,

I wrote. He wrote …. so he says.

 

Wave my arm, left, I’ve light,

Sometimes right, with pen, I’ve light,

Take the lift, or exit. Why this voice, always?

I still hear receptionist’s telephone,

Not her response.

 

Will weekend newspapers be read?

I presume not. A waste, for all,

The papers do not enlighten,

They’re written with long arms,

Long arms over keyboards.

 

Click, click. The lights turn on, off,

And outside, the sun. What horror we live,

And then, goodbye. Yes: I am writing,

Here on your step. Goodbye,

Goodbye old man,

That’s enough for you, enough for me.

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