Trio by Frank Wilson
His aim had been to master self.
He thought he had, only self had proved
Elusive. Pop tunes lost their cachet.
Debussy’s dreamscapes flourished.
That self had dreamed a different life,
More bateau than livre. Marigolds
And maples, ferns and mayapples, had been real,
As she is real, though elsewhere, while he is here,
Which happens to be nowhere, and will last
Until she finds her way back home.
A Note to You
I was wishing you would call. But you didn’t.
It’s OK. Made me wonder about when
We met, you waving at a man stranger
Than you could have guessed, who noticed his life
Might change. We got together. Only now
You are not here and have not been awhile.
Meaning I’m alone. You’re elsewhere, people
Popping in from time to time, though I cannot,
Except at times specified by protocol.
This may be a lousy poem, but sometimes
Art can’t manage to measure up to life.
No use turning on music. She’s not here
To listen. So the space fills up with silence,
And he can only be a presence within
Absence, a void conjuring heartache.
She told him that she loved him. All at once
Being modulated from minor to major.
Only Saturday’s arrived. And she’s not here.
He locks up the house. Turns off the lights.
And in the darkness knows he’s alone.
Frank Wilson is a retired Inquirer book editor. Visit his blog Books, Inq. — The Epilogue Email him at PresterFrank@gmail.com