It’s good you came—she says. <br />You heard a plane crashed on Thursday? <br />Well so they came to see me <br />about it. <br />The story is he was on the passenger list. <br />So what, he might have changed his mind. <br />They gave me some pills so I wouldn’t fall apart. <br />Then they showed me I don’t know who. <br />All black, burned except one hand. <br />A scrap of shirt, a watch, a wedding ring. <br />I got furious, that can’t be him. <br />He wouldn’t do that to me, look like that. <br />The stores are bursting with those shirts. <br />The watch is just a regular old watch. <br />And our names on that ring, <br />they’re only the most ordinary names. <br />It’s good you came. Sit here beside me. <br />He really was supposed to get back Thursday. <br />But we’ve got so many Thursdays left this year. <br />I’ll put the kettle on for tea. <br />I’ll wash my hair, then what, <br />try to wake up from all this. <br />It’s good you came, since it was cold there, <br />and him just in some rubber sleeping bag, <br />him, I mean, you know, that unlucky man. <br />I’ll put the Thursday on, wash the tea, <br />since our names are completely ordinary—<br /><br />Wislawa Szymborska<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/identification-4/
