He stands before me every day and
I can’t tell who is here
I miss
who is absent
Here’s nothing of the lusty
red hot fury of concentration
steam and sweat of heavy work
No rush to do
only impatience
with an unfamiliar voice,
accent
question
printed sheet
painted symbol All seem threats
What hums in his chest?
What presses on his frowning brows?
What word grasps the wish
but comes out twisted?
What name lost and
lost again
has disappeared?
– Phyllis Hotch
