In a week he will turn seventy-two
and he just wants to cry. This isn’t
about that. He reads poetry daily
and he has a backlog to read because
of missing some days due to travel.
He gets choked up while reading every
one of the handful that sat unopened
in his e-mail box and he is sure not
all of them were intended to evoke
tears. A friend told him recently
about a mutual acquaintance who
is becoming very sentimental in
his old age and even cries while
delivering dry talks on fundraising.
This isn’t that. He is sad because
his country has lost its way and
he sees the hostility and it evokes
feelings akin to those he experienced
when his wife died in a day twenty-
three years ago. He’s not being
sentimental; he’s just in shock,
and scared and sad, ever so sad.