for Stuart and Ali
The dishes washed, the plates stacked
Neatly in their cupboards, he scooped up a section
Of the Sunday paper and slipped into the lounge,
His belt stretched around a second slice of cake.
He dozed off over the picture of a scoring hero
And came to again at four, the house quiet,
And brightness gone from the sky. He felt weak,
Knowing that this day was done, or wasted,
And thought about his school, how they
Used to run for miles around a grass track
And never get tired. He thought of friends
Who had fallen into ambition, success
And failure. He should have written letters
But didn't. What was it that he had wanted,
Running around that circle? What would
He now say he had missed? Nothing. He felt
That day's paper slip from his hands,
His muscles loosen, and lids close over eyes
That still stared into the near-dark garden
Where small birds flitted about unnoticed.
Southwest Review
Volume 93, Number 2 / 2008
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