Poetry
Tomlinson, Rawdon
Rawdon Tomlinson Mr. Norwood He stands at the foot of my bed expressionless and mute. inside a white room, walls vague as drifting snow, waiting with his long suffering wife, her Buddha smile,...
...There are others like him who come to share distance, hearts softened, who .sense the residue of grief, black rose...
...we walked through the room where he was propped in bed on white pillows, head faced toward the wall open eyed, not lookinglike a thought lost...
...I visited to play Daniel Boone with his son...
...Perhaps he is summoned by the suffering which wakes me to the dark, ocean-night alone beside my sleeping wife...
...In drunken oblivion he missed a curve years ago, was paralyzed forever before he died...
...inside a white room, walls vague as drifting snow, waiting with his long suffering wife, her Buddha smile, as though 1 should have expected them...
...And I never send them away, and they never know what to say...
Vol. 117 • February 1990 • No. 4
