the poetry of Charles Fry

6 November 1994

friend (and, by now, even brother)

the telegram came and I opened it with shaky hands
unsure of what monumental news merited such communication

Come. I am dying.

were the only words inscribed on the small piece of paper
gathering my coat and filling its pockets I set off
over the snowy mountain

after three strenuous days I arrived
from the journey that usually took five
and numbed from the air I entered his house
and collapsed by his bed and took his hand in mine

his eyes opened and his head slowly turned
behind his pain dead face I felt a feeble tremor of joy
as his lips parted and spoke

I knew you would come.

then in patient relief they closed with him


my telegram written but laid to wait on the table replied

So am I.

Copyright © 1994 Charles Fry