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When a man, suppose a man of considerable wealth, has eyes

that meet you and leave you like making eye contact with a small

bird, says that his personal life just went in the crapper,

do you relate by saying, shyly, I can relate, or do you nod your

head like the cat watching the bird jump from each dry limb to the next

thinking how lucky he is to have feathers?

If the man says his daughter is the apple of his eye, you believe him

because you know. And if he says, suddenly, very slowly with the mouth

of an old horse, she is pregnant and wants to live with the boy

and they don’t want to get married, but they want his consent, you might say,

so? and whip the weary horse back to the field to dig up more earth.

This is a wealthy man, of mind and spirit you don’t know, but you are sure of

a soulful pocketbook. You also know from your own days on the hunt

wealth is a tricky and formidable foe so you respect this man with his

never-dropped bloodied bare-knuckled fists, his raptor stare

when he says they asked for consent and he said, hell no.

This wealthy man darted his eyes for answers, the little spare change

dropped in another man’s cup on Washington Street as you cross the bridge.

As usual, you’ve given enough. You can’t give to every person everyday

you see them shiver with windblown skin under shreds of coat.

You can’t stand to look him in the eyes so you soar your sight above

circling the sky filled with a thousand stories of mirrored glass.

You say, I’m sure everything will work out in the end, and he

appreciates your dishonesty, being a wealthy man. He respects

the fact that you didn’t say that she needs you now and she’ll need

you when the marriage fails, that all you can be is there.

He nods, knowing that you are not a wealthy man, but a man still reliant

on hope which he will do, waiting for his daughter to catch the millisecond

that his eyes go still and open. I’m sorry, he finally hears. I’m sorry

Daddy, says her little girl voice. When the wings open and flap words

in the wind, we all catch the little breeze that leaves us rubbing our eyes.

Between Meetings

Companions