(For J.D.S. — December 1978)
Etched
is the moment I reached
for that hot-pink cleaning slip
you were far too numb
to see.
The
cortège had arrived. You
were a small iron rod on cold
steps, void by
your side,
slip
stapled to black cuff
like a neon marquee. When
I reached to strip it, you
misread
the
intent – clutched
as from riptides
my hand.
