Though every day she sits closer to me than
my wife, and longer
And the wall that separates us is not as high
I know this about her, though:
Her husband left her, and he's remarried,
and on a carrier in the gulf
He won't be home for Christmas, which
hurts her nonetheless, for the kids will be
disappointed
One of whom has a learning disability, and recently underwent surgery on his eyes
She has cancer, and a lot of friends who look out for her
And the way she speaks to her son and daughter on the telephone is quite beautiful
She won't take chemotherapy or radiation, believing natural ways to be best
Though she did give them her breast
And she's probably younger than I am
She prays, of course
Etiquette demands that I leave unacknowledged that which I can't help but overhear
Yet I shudder every time she slams the drawer
And I'm not sure which part is unspeakable
If these are not words for a poem
Then neither are they words for a life
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