Had you lived longer, perhaps you might remember, or pretend to remember, holding my hand at that funeral on the last dayI’d see you alive, the two of us meeting in that crowded vestibuleby chance after so many years, both of us looking for spaceon the coatracks, finding none, leaving our coats on, a topcoat …
I give you a man in a waiting room, waiting, a man so plain, so very ordinary—gray, brown and brown, a little blue—that were he not alone he’d be invisible.We can see him this clearly because there’s no one else here. He’s seated in one of the too many identical chairs—chrome frame, green vinyl upholstery. …