She woke me up at dawn, <br />her suitcase like a little brown dog at her heels. <br /> <br />I sat up and looked out the window <br />at the snow falling in the stand of blackjack trees. <br /> <br />A bus ticket in her hand. <br /> <br />Then she brought something black up to her mouth, <br />a plum I thought, but it was an asthma inhaler. <br /> <br />I reached under the bed for my menthols <br />and she asked if I ever thought of cancer. <br /> <br />Yes, I said, but always as a tree way up ahead <br />in the distance where it doesn't matter <br /> <br />And I suppose a dead soul must look back at that tree, <br />so far behind his wagon where it also doesn't matter. <br /> <br />except as a memory of rest or water. <br /> <br />Though to believe any of that, I thought, <br />you have to accept the premise <br /> <br />that she woke me up at all.<br /><br />David Berman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/imagining-defeat/
