background image
of their high school crop,' I say,
and Meeker contemplates them
and nods. The pair seem poignant
somehow, she with her fi ne eyes
that innocently fl ash, he
absorbed, his movements crisp
and sure. I say, `They don't know
what's hit 'em,' playing the seer
as only a spectator
can. I turn from watching them
to make a further comment
and see that Meeker's not here.
I sense the fi nality
in the air -- he won't be back.
So. He's gone. I take a breath.
Well, goodbye, old companion.
I look around the cafe,
people eating and talking,
the wet snow spinning idly,
now, outside the windows, and
fi nish my meal and go out.
I sit writing letters
in the lobby of the broken-down
Meeker Hotel. The talk
of a bent old woman
and two old men,
desultory when I came in,
stopped some time back.
The buzz of a light fi xture,
a sniff , a cough,
another cough. The TV set
stands gray and still.
More coughs. Silence.