by Jim Farfaglia
When you were in the backyard
I watched from my bedroom window,
trying to figure you out.
When you sat at the kitchen table,
worrying over the checkbook,
I was at my homework desk
studying why you weren’t good enough.
When you ruled the living room,
remote in hand,
I burrowed a hole under the covers,
my insides out of control.
When you and I passed each other
every day in the hallway,
our eyes never met,
Like watching a lightning storm
strike a tree, shocking us
as bolt after bolt
travels through you
your right side collapsing,
your stiffened left arm
pounding the hospital bed,
trying, as you have all your life,
to drive back
what comes to claim you.
The elevator’s ping startles me.
Sixth floor, a gentle voice confirms
as its steel doors part
and I step into another day
of your fading world. All week,
the shades have been drawn,
your bed wrapped in artificial light,
giving an antiseptic hope.
When your eyes open, you struggle
back from your leaving train
and we meet one more day
at the station of waiting.
Jim Farfaglia is a writer based in upstate New York. He has self-published three books of poetry that explore themes such as his rural upbringing and a devotion to the pop music of his youth, as well as several local history books. One of them, Voices in the Storm: Stories from the Blizzard of ’66, was a finalist in the CNY Book Awards. His website is www.jimfarfaglia.com