After, it was you, John;
it was you i saw in Fan Tan Alley
you walked by, right by me, you didn't even look or see
you looked at the blonde and walked her through the glass
door into the bright lights of the restaurant

Before, on the grass, the weekend you came to visit:
"she's rehearsing", you said, she'd "come by later for tea"
"want to play chess?", you asked; "yes", i replied
we played on the lawn; you lost; we both laughed

you had one more, just one, one more memory for me
on stage you performed dreams and music for your lover;
on stage, you acted out fantasies on your guitar.

in your chair, on paper, you composed,
the only photo I stole from you; you stayed right there

before, you read the morning paper,
and learned of the murder of your only son, five years old,
shot in the head at close range, by a rifle gun

after, your soul left; you didn't see me, see anything
i wanted to shake your bones, yell, some things matter!
some things live, exist, some things John, some things!!
if you could forget the death of your son, the suicide
of your wife; the murderer who got out in three months

now, in Fan Tan Alley i see you, but do not call your name
say hello, nor shake your bones, for you are my friend
still, years have passed, these terrifying memories remain
i know my face, my eyes, would make them live again

so i stop and watch you pass by
i do not want to see a spirit death, again,
here, in this place
it is enough to see a smile upon an old friend's face

Alison Nicholls
(published in 1997 Stroll of Poets Anthology, Edmonton, AB)