a pause at the edge
t. kilgore splake
seventy-three years, eyesight ravaged by
diabetes, medicines no effect, halting lame step,
Medicare-funded cane necessary guidance, slowly
wasting like old tree, inner forest sanctum, losing leaves
from top and bottom branches, once tough wood and
bark rotting within,
spending days searching for understanding of love,
afternoon companion with “Young and Restless,”
“Days of Our Lives,” continuous television soap operas,
courting intellectual recognition, getting answers before
panelists, contests, “Jeopardy,” “Hollywood Squares,” a
circus of media game shows
endless nights bargaining with heaven, constantly
asking God during small hours of early morning, “what
good reason He put her on earth for all these years,”
too soon, somber, mute soul, eating morning
breakfast, returning to bed fully clothed, watching,
waiting,
talking, laughing, crying, shouting at empty chairs,
vacant corners, trying to remember faces long gone,
voices silent years ago.