Rain and dark roads brew a black-tea storm:
Waiting—waiting—you do not arrive—
My teacup-storm erupts—your phone unanswered—
Full-scale panic—flashing lights—
Tight-faced doctor—“he was in no pain”—
And always waiting; how can silence
Be so loud? How can absence be so busy?
Nurses rush, police make notes, priest rolls up stole,
And like the cyclone’s Cyclops eye I stand stock still:
An open grave flies past me, and then what?
Then you arrived; you’d stopped to buy a cake.
Relief is such a transient thing. Then anger roars:
“How dare you survive, when I have grieved for you!”