I’ve always been one to ask what someone’s looking at
While she was always one to stare
She’s a mystic in the sense that she’s still mystified by things.

I always thought it would be soon
That my little brother could read the headlines and listen to the church bells
While he could still be called little.
And every time it was today I told myself tomorrow
Because I have yet to be published in the New Yorker,
The best I can currently hope for is a two by three in the back of the local paper.
I don’t know if that makes me selfish
Or if I’m just searching for some shot at self-preservation.
I’m getting older
Last year I went to the funerals of two friends fathers.

She called me on the phone the other day
Hung up an hour later
After thanking me for being there for her
Last week I picked up the line to hear she drowned in a powdered sea
And yesterday I looked out to see the snow beginning to thaw
As my neighbours left for work.