Midnight had come,
although without me,
I lay asleep
in Dreamland
by Futon.
The date was February,
the seventh,
counting dateline,
to thus adjust
for overseas
and older friends.
We were, the two
of us, like once
upon a time that
saw us both,
as young
and strapping,
we stood,
me leaning
on my father’s
marble stone,
he facing me
and pointing,
touching,
prodding,
with his
butcher’s finger
into my chest.
And thus he spoke:
‘It is the seven,
that is my number’,
to which,
confused
I did reply:
‘Is it the lucky
one for you,
the seven,
as it is for many? ‘
He did not speak
for many moments,
just gazed at me
with sad black lashes,
then, with a nod
he shook his head
just like the man,
you know, the black
and revolutionary
Doc, the name is Luther,
Martin, yes,
he rose to heights
that stretched his frame
beyond all expectation,
and shouted now,
top of his voice,
‘It is my number,
not my luck! ‘
I had sat up
in nuisance sweat,
and never found
my way
back into sleep
that fateful night.
But daylight
would erase
all traces of
this foolishness.
But my friend Robert,
what a guy!
He always was a talker,
he did not send
or call
or write,
was incommunicado,
there was a note,
laconic words,
so lonely in the box,
it did not beg,
ask to be read
but showed
its awful presence.
That night at twelve,
he prodded me,
to reach my heart
with fingers,
that had just lost
some of their blood
and said their last good-bye.
He died alone,
it was his time
and had the manners
and the love
to pause
and say Farewell.
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