I sit here and see their faces—
One by one they march by—
Troubled, tear-stained, open-mouthed. Desperate.
What can I do to help?
Of course it’s a male thing—we have to help.
But no.
As they march by slow and weary—
I reach back in memory and remember other days—
When the sun was high in the sky and we laughed and ran
and loved it all.
Nights when we drank or smoked or argued and just enjoyed being as one.
What can I do to help?
No much.
We live too far away—
Phone calls, books
and notes are too fragile vessels to carry
our love and care.
And so I pray.
Does it matter?
Who knows?
But I pray—believing—half-believing--somehow out there
where they live
and go through the motions of the day—
a lightness will
come to their heaviness
and a glimmer of
hope will find a way into their hearts.
--Roger Lovette
-- rogerlovette/rogerlovette.blogspot.com
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