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(an apology to James Tate)
You had been suffering, badly,
with a pain there was no cure for.
I ran into you on the street in Amherst.
You were frail, managed a smile.
I asked you how you were.
Don’t remember what you said
but out of my inability to say
the right thing, I blurted,
“We get old, we get sick.”
How we stumble, are glib
in the face of our fear
when we might show
our own raw heart
in respect for those who stand
at the door of mystery.
Or just the sudden loss of light.
Copyright 2022 Doug Anderson