I try to press the memories, stored within,
But nothing comes.

The foreboding cloud resides, reminding me 
       that this will be the last—           
the final time to look into his eyes…
to watch a smile skirt the thin lips…
to talk of politics, philosophies and such…
to speak quickly of death and all it brings,
    and lightly turn to other things.
Getting things in order, making calls;
Trying not to be too busy to notice
	his icy stare which tries to see his fate
	relaxing in his thought that his time has almost come.

Each must pass into the next world on his own..
	but it will be nice to know
          that I can walk him to the station..

A low whistle sound in the distance
	and I wonder if his time has come.
He would laugh and wonder
   if the light was the end of the tunnel,
	or the glare of the train approaching fast.

I hope he gets his window seat……………….

by D.K.Walker

e-mail: spearmint100@yahoo.com