Late nights, with summer moths clinging <br />to the screens & the shadows of the Old Great <br />flickering across the tv screen, suddenly, <br />there would be Charlie's inquisitorial head <br />peering in the window, the shock of white hair, <br />followed by the heart-stopping shock <br />of greeting. Just passing through, he'd say, <br />and--seeing as the light was on-- <br />thought we might have ourselves a talk. <br /> <br />Did I ever have time enough for Charlie? <br />Usually not. The story of my life, <br />of the one, as Chaucer says of someone, <br />who seems always busier than he is. <br />Then, abruptly, & discourteously, <br />death put a stop to Charlie's visits. <br />Summer moths collect still at the windows. <br />Then leaves & winter ice. Then summer moths <br />again. Each year, old ghost, I seem <br />to miss you more and more, your youth spent <br />with Auden & the Big Ones, words-- <br />theirs, yours--helping you survive <br />a brutal youth. Too late I see now <br />how you honored me like those hidden <br />gods of old who walk among us like <br />the dispossessed, and who, if you are <br />among the lucky ones, tap at your window <br />when you least expect to ask you for a cup <br />of water and a little of your time.<br /><br />Paul Mariani<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-gods-who-come-among-us-in-the-guise-of-nbsp/
