by Glen Martin Fitch
We drove to see a play
I'd only read.
I'm really glad
my seat was on the aisle.
Act V, scene iii
all eyes were watching,
while old Lear holds in his arms
Cordelia, dead.
The only dry eyes in the house
were mine.
(All tears
were beaten out of me
when young)
Instead, a ham string knots.
I jump.
I'm strung out on the carpet,
bent,
with bouncing spine.
It's years since you have gone,
not months or days.
Not every thought's
disheartening to me.
Not every ache
springs from a memory.
I feel your loss
in many different ways.
Yet there are times
I find the slightest strain
can zap and twist my soul
in wrenching pain.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011